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€t)e i©orftjS of 25al?ac 

CENTENARY EDITION 
VOLUME XXVIII. 


THE MAGIC SKIN 
THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE 





LA COMEDIE HUMAINE 

OF 

HONORE DE BALZAC 


TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 


THE MAGIC SKIN 
THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE 


SUustrateti bg 
P. AVRIL 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 


TLz 


Copyright, 1887, 1888, 1896, 

By Roberts Brothers. 

Copyright, 1915, 

By Little, Brown and Company. 


All rights reserved. 

5 .^ 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


TO 

MONSIEUR SAVARY, 


WBMBEB OF THB ACA.DBMT OF SCIENCBS- 



CONTENTS.' 


a^agtt 

PAGB 

INTRODUCTION vii 

PART 

I. The Talisman , 1 

II. The Woman without a Heart 86 

III. The Death Agony 212 


THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE 


327 




INTRODUCTION. 


The initial idea of Balzac’s “ Com^die Humaine ” was 
derived from Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire’s doctrine of the 
unity of composition. He proposed to analyze society 
as the great philosophical anatomist had analyzed the 
zoological kingdom, and to explain the differences be- 
tween classes of men and women by demonstrating 
the influence of environment in modifying a common 
humanity. In order to carry out this colossal under- 
taking it was necessary to dissect society, to examine 
its various states and elements, both separately and 
together, to catalogue with laborious and patient 
thoroughness all the manifold tendencies, influences, 
external and internal agencies, which in myriad combi- 
nations operate to produce the phenomena called in the 
aggregate civilized life. He did not regard himself as a 
writer of romances, but as a social historian, or, as he 
himself put it, as the secretary of French society, which 
acted its own history while he took notes of all that 
passed before his eyes. But, as he says in the general 
introduction to his collected works, after having done 
all this, after having accumulated the material for a real 
history of society in the nineteenth century, “ought I 
not to study the reasons or the reason of these social 


VIU 


Introduction. 


effects, and if possible surprise the hidden meaning 
in this immense assemblage of figures, passions, and 
events? Finally, after having sought, I do not say 
found, this reason, this social motor, is it not necessary 
to meditate the principles of Nature, and ascertain in 
what society departs from or approaches the eternal law 
of Truth and Beauty ? ” 

The greater part of the ‘ ‘ Com^die Humaine ” is occu- 
pied with the dissection of modern, or, to be exact, 
French society. It has been said of Balzac that he 
preferred to paint the seamy side, — that he chose vice 
rather than virtue for illustration ; but all such criticism 
simply marks the limitations of the critic. Balzac in 
truth painted with marvellous and absolutely fearless 
faithfulness that which he saw. If vice triumphs often 
in his works, if virtue is often defeated, crushed, mar- 
t^Ted, it is because this is what happens in the world, 
because he could not represent society as it existed 
without bringing into strong relief all those consequences 
of unbridled egoism which manifest themselves as injus- 
tice, greed, lust, perfidy, fraud, dishonesty, hatred, mean- 
ness, inhumanity, and which were then, are now, and 
perhaps ever will be in active antagonism to all that 
belongs to the higher life. But Balzac was not a pessi- 
mist. He believed in human progress. In the general 
introduction already’ quoted he says: “ Man is neither 
good nor bad. He is born with instincts and aptitudes. 
Society, far from depraving him, as Rousseau pretended, 
elevates and improves him. But self-interest develops 
evil tendencies in him ; and the natural remedy for 
them, he holds, is religion. 

That was his personal belief, but it did not interfere 


Introduction. 


ix 


with the prosecution of his life-work, which was to show 
society its own image, as exactlj^ and completely as pos- 
sible, neither extenuating anything nor setting down 
aught in malice. Having, however, accomplished this 
great labor, he intended to crown his work by a series 
of philosophical and analj’tical studies, in which the 
inner significance of the great drama should be un- 
folded, and which should lead up to the establishment 
of certain principles tending to facilitate the evolution 
of a higher civilization. He did not live to accomplish 
this division of his enterprise, but the “ Philosophical 
Studies, ’’ of which “The Magic Skin” (La Peau de 
Chagrin) forms the first, embody the main conceptions 
which were to have been developed in the uncompleted 
series. “The Magic Skin” was indeed the first of 
his works which secured to Balzac any serious reputa- 
tion. In “ The Chouans,” which preceded it, he had 
shown a growing mastery of his literary tools. In the 
“Physiology of Marriage” he had seemed to appeal 
only to the French fondness for the fantastic and the 
audacious. But “ The Magic Skin” was the opening of 
an entirely new vein ; and while it cannot be said that its 
full meaning was apprehended by the average reader of 
his day, there could be no doubt as to the power and 
erudition displayed in it. 

When it was written, the scheme of the “ Comedie 
Humaine” was in embryo ; but Balzac had already ma- 
tured the philosophy which runs through all his works, 
and he was fresh from a course of philosophical, psy- 
chological and occult studies which he had been pursu- 
ing steadily for three years, while leading an ascetic 
life in a miserable garret, and practising his pen upon 


X 


Introduction. 


those crude romances which he published under various 
pseudon3'ms, and which have only been gathered to- 
gether since his death, and very unnecessarily repub- 
lished under the collective title, “ CEuvres de Jeunesse.” 
No author of his eminence has been so ill-served in 
respect of biographical monuments. Not only has no 
attempt been made to write an adequate life of him, but 
of the many fragmentary records prepared b}^ his col- 
leagues and contemporaries, there is scarcely one which 
is not frivolous. Werdet, Gozlan, Baschet, Champ- 
fleury, Desnoiresterres, Gautier, Sainte-Beuve, Lamar- 
tine, have all written about him, but not one otherwise 
than superficially. Sainte-Beuve might have been ex- 
pected, perhaps, to deal with the subject penetratingly, 
but either he could not trust his personal feelings or he 
felt Balzac to be beyond the gauge of his critical plum- 
met, and certainly neither of his Balzac papers is worthy 
of him. Gautier has written appreciatively and bril- 
liantly, but Gautier could no more comprehend such a 
mind as Balzac’s than the god Pan could comprehend 
the metaphysic of the schools. It happens, moreover, 
that the psychical side of Balzac, which was really one 
of the strongest in his nature, has been in a special way 
obscured and neglected through the dense materialism 
of the majority of his contemporaries and critics. 

Because he depicted a state of society in which 
material things, possessions, ambitions, were the be-all 
and the end-all of action and effort, it was assumed that 
he himself deliberately selected that kind of life for 
illustration. Nothing could be farther from the truth. 
There was a deep vein of m^’sticism in Balzac, as there 
must ever be in men whose genius enables them to take 


Introduction. xi 

large views of life, and whose intellectual enterprise 
leads them to examine nature carefully and to reject 
the trammels of authority in forming their judgments. 
The spirit which sneers at m3"sticism is no doubt much 
in evidence at present, but it is none the less a sign of 
intellectual shallowness and servitude to convention 
which affords little solid ground for self-gratulation. 
Balzac had earned the right to hold opinions on occult 
subjects by profound study. His critics, while know- 
ing nothing of the studies, but proceeding on a priori 
grounds, have affected a superior air in commenting 
on his psychological views, and have seemed to impl}’^ 
that his researches in this direction indicated some 
mental weakness on his part. 

The result has been a sort of ‘‘ conspiracy" of silence” 
in regard to one of the most interesting periods of his 
mental gi’owth ; and had he not, in the present work 
and in “ Louis Lambert,” given some autobiographic 
material, very little would be known of his psychical 
investigations. Gautier, whose own temperament may 
almost be said to have rendered the suprasensual unin- 
telligible to him, had nevertheless the keenness of per- 
ception to realize that Balzac was not as other men, but 
that he possessed special faculties. Thus he obseiwes : 
“ Though it may" seem a strange assertion in the nine- 
teenth century, Balzac was a Seer ; ” and he goes on 
to illustrate this by referring to the wonderful power 
which Balzac exercised, not only of creating but of sus- 
taining in full vigor and sharply differentiated attitudes 
and characters, “the two or three thousand ty"pes that 
play more or less important parts in the ‘ Comedie Hu- 
maine.’ ” Gautier says ; “He did not copy them, he 


xii 


Introduction. 


lived them ideally, wore their clothes, contracted theli 
habits, surrounded himself with their conditions — wa% 
each one of them whenever necessary.” Every com- 
mentator on Balzac, from Sainte-Beuve to Taine, has 
dwelt upon this characteristic of his work, — the unpar- 
alleled vitality and realness of his creations. No other 
writer approaches him in this ; and it is a gift usually 
sought to be explained by using the much-abused word 
“ intuition.” 

It is necessary to examine this point with care, for 
it has a direct relation with that philosophical sj'stem 
which Balzac made his own, and through it a clew to 
many other problems may be obtained. The faculty 
spoken of as intuition was, in the author of the 
“ Comedie Humaine,” as in all creative geniuses, that 
of embodying his thoughts so perfectly that for him- 
self, during the heat of composition, those embodied 
thoughts became to all practical intents objective ap- 
pearances. It has been said repeatedly that Balzac 
often seemed to regard his characters as living per- 
sons ; nay, there is at least one striking remark of his 
on record which indicates that they were to him even 
more real than the material things about him. But the 
creation of these eidola^ however wonderful, is as noth- 
ing to the psychical feat of maintaining them in exist- 
ence. The general idea probably is that an author 
carefully thinks out everything his characters are to say 
and do before he puts pen to paper. The fact is far 
otherwise. Both Thackeray and Dickens asserted that 
thej^ were often absolutely surprised by the sayings and 
doings of their creations ; and this was no doubt alsc 
the case with Balzac. There is indeed a concurrence 


Introduction, 


xiii 


of evidence proceeding from writers in whom the so- 
called intuitional faculty has been most fully developed, 
to the effect that when the imagination has once in- 
formed a fictitious character with the semblance of life, 
that character may go on to control its own move- 
ments, and exercise apparently an individual volition, 
evolving ideas and tendencies, of the suggestion of 
which the author is wholly unconscious. 

The connection between this singular experience and 
the philosoph}^ of Balzac is closer than may at first ap- 
pear. He controlled two avenues to knowledge, — his 
literary acquirements and his observation of the world. 
To the mastery of each he had devoted time and pa- 
tient study ; and such was the fusing force of his genius 
that he was able to employ either method indifferently. 
His personal experience was of a character to convince 
him of the potency of Will and of Thought. For not 
only could he create immaterial characters, and clothe 
them with a vitality so strong that, as one of his critics 
observes, they seem ready to leap out of the pages of 
his books, but in encountering men and women in the 
material world he seemed to himself able to penetrate 
beneath the mask of fiesh, to survey their minds, to 
apprehend their joys and sorrows, and, as he himself 
said, “their desires, their needs, all passed into my 
soul, and my soul passed into theirs.” This strange 
endowment must have generated exceptional ideas in 
him concerning the power of Thought ; and even from 
early youth the problem of Will had fascinated and ab- 
sorbed him. All that is said in this book on the 
“Treatise of the Will” is autobiographical. The dis- 
cussion of the question indeed belongs properly to the 


xiv 


Introduction, 


history of “ Louis Lambert ; ” but it ma}- be said here 
that Balzac himself exhibited throughout his life an ab- 
normally energetic and persistent Volition. The con- 
fession of Raphael in “ The Magic Skin ” is in fact the 
confession of Balzac so far as it relates to his early 
trials, his intellectual struggles, his stern self-repression, 
and his pursuit of the deepest problems. His carnal 
propensities were undoubtedly those of a hon vivant 
and man of the world ; but no monk of the Thebaid 
ever crucified the flesh more rigorously than this robust 
and society-loving Tourangean. 

In the years during which he haunted the streets of 
Paris and took observations of real life, and watched 
the motives of men and analyzed human conduct, he 
saw enough to strengthen and confirm his belief as to 
the gravity of the parts played in the human comedy 
by Will and Thought. Yet it is not to be inferred that 
lie was the discoverer of a new philosoph}" or psychol- 
ogy. He had read deeplj^ in the lore of the East as 
well as in that of the West. He had held no human 
thought to be above or below his pains. He was as 
well acquainted with the metaph3"sics of Hindustan as 
with those of Europe. His memory was prodigious, 
and he was always able to collate his own experiences 
with the dicta of others in all ages. Something of that 
which he saw at this time, something of that Paris 
world of which he became the analyst and historian, 
M. Taine has described with graphic force. “ In that 
black ant-hill,” he writes, “life is too active. Democ- 
racy established and government centralized have 
drawn together all the men of ambition, and inflamed 
all their aspirations. Gold, glory, pleasure, prepared 


Introduction, 


XV 


and heaped up, are quarries pursued by a maddened 
pack of insatiable desires, aggravated b}’’ the struggle 
and the rivalry. To succeed ! — this word, unknown a 
century since, is to-da}’ the sovereign ruler of all lives. 
Paris is an arena ; involuntarily one is drawn into it ; 
everything vanishes but the idea of the goal and the 
rivals ; the runner feels their breath upon his shoulder ; 
all his energies are on the strain ; in this spasm of voli- 
tion he doubles his enthusiasm, and contracts the fever 
which at once exhausts and sustains him. Thence arise 
prodigies of work, and not only the work of the man of 
science who studies until he sinks, or of the artist who 
creates until he collapses, but the work of the man 
who plots, intrigues, weighs his words, measures his 
friendships, interweaves the mjTiad threads of his hopes 
to catch a clientage, a place, or a name. Far indeed 
are we from the ways of our fathers, and from those 
salons where a well-written letter, a prettily-turned 
madrigal, a witty saying, gave interest to a whole 
evening, and sometimes founded a reputation ! But 
this is nothing ; the fever of the brain is worse than 
that of the will. The accession of the bourgeoisie has 
given the freedom of the city to all the professions ; 
with specialists, special ideas have entered the world ; 
the current of thought is no longer a gentle stream of 
fashionable slander and gossip, of gallantrj^ or light 
philosophy, but a great river which is swollen by the 
turbulent affluents of finance, speculation, chicanery, 
diplomacy, and erudition ; it is a torrent which, pour- 
ing every morning into each brain, both nourishes and 
drowns the receiver.” 

All the strongest minds of the whole world, he con- 


XVI 


Introduction. 


tinues, contribute to this overwhelming flood. Who- 
ever thinks is represented. Every conceivable idea has 
its special advocate and illustrator. “ From all these 
smoking brains, thought rises like a vapor ; it is 
breathed involuntarily ; it sparkles in a thousand rest- 
less e^’es.” And what, he asks, is the relief from this 
fever of the will and of thought ? Another fever, — 
that of the senses. In the country the tired man goes 
to bed at nine, or sits in the chimney-corner with his 
wife and pokes the fire, or takes a stroll in the great 
empty high-road, peacefull}’', with slow steps, contem- 
plating the monotonous plain, and thinking of the 
weather of the morrow. Observe Paris at the same 
hour : the gas is lighted, the boulevard fills, the the- 
atres are crowded, the masses amuse themselves ; they 
go wherever mouth, ears, or eyes discern a possible grat- 
ification, a pleasure of a refined, artificial kind, — a kind 
of unwholesome cookery, designed to stimulate, not to 
nourish, — ofiered b^" greed and excess to satiet3’and cor- 
ruption.’^ This is the Paris Balzac studied, and which, 
M. Taine holds, had entered into him more deeply" than 
into other men. ‘ ‘ Who,” he says, ‘ ‘ has fought, thought, 
and enjoyed more than he ? Whose soul and bod}^ have 
burned more fiercely with all these fevers ? ” 

But M. Taine is not quite right here. It was 
Balzac who grasped Paris more completely than ordi- 
nary men, not Paris that obtained a greater masteiy 
than common over him. His genius lifted the veil, 
clarified the turbid atmosphere, disentangled the con- 
fused threads of existence, and evolved from the min- 
gled strife of will, thought, and sense, that marvellous 
gallery of pictures which constitutes the “ Comedie 


Introduction. 


xvii 


Humaine.” It is, however, curious, and perhaps some- 
what significant, that M. Taine, in describing this Paris 
world employs Balzac’s own methods, figures, and 
points of view. When he speaks of the smoking brains 
whence the seething thoughts issue like vapor, he is 
following in the lines laid down by Balzac in his gen- 
eral introduction, and developed further in this work. 
For thought, according to the great writer, is as dis- 
tinctly one of the forces of nature as electricity and 
magnetism, and together with will-power it dominates 
the universe. The doctrine is no doubt ancient. It 
can be found in the Kabbala, and it may be traced far 
bej’ond the genesis of the Kabbala, in the venerable 
philosophies of Asia. Offshoots from this doctrine 
moreover are to be seen even to-day in the popular 
superstitions of many countries. Western as well as 
Eastern, and — so do extremes meet — in the best- 
attested records of modern medical science. Balzac held 
that Will and Thought can and do infiuence and control 
material things. The sobriety of such a contention can 
only be questioned by those who are unacquainted with 
phj^siology, psychology, and pathology. It is, how- 
ever, rather singular that whereas the infiuence of the 
mind upon the body it occupies has long been fully 
recognized, the possibility that the mind of one person 
may influence either the mind or the body of another 
has only been admitted after a protracted resistance, 
and when denial had become futile. 

The recent researches of Charcot, Richet, and others 
into the phenomena called hypnotic, and the remark- 
able discoveries made concerning the influence of sug- 
gestion upon sensitive subjects, have familiarized the 

h 


XVlll 


Introduction. 


public with facts which are clearly related in many 
ways to the theories of Balzac. If the simple exercise 
of volition on the part of a magnetizer, unexpressed in 
words or by gestures, can produce in the subject all 
the effects of a self-evolved purpose, and can even 
close the mind of that subject to all moral warnings 
and inhibitions, so that the suggestion of murder will 
be acted upon with precisely the same unhesitating 
readiness as a prompting to eat or drink ; and if this 
external control can be so employed that the sugges- 
tion will be carried out, not on the instant of release 
from the hypnotic state, but after a lapse of time, — the 
difficulty of escaping the conclusion that will-power is 
a distinct natural force is clearly increased enormouslj^ 
The recent experiments at the SalpMriere would, how- 
ever, not have astonished Balzac more than they sur- 
prise those who have studied the occult sciences. The 
power now being brought within the purview of sci- 
ence was not only known to, but exploited by inquiring 
minds ages ago. Like so many of the alleged discover- 
ies upon which Western civilization prides itself, this 
is in truth not a discover}" at all, but a tardy recogni- 
tion of truth long since ascertained in other countries, 
and until now obstinately and stupidly ignored by 
those who at present plume themselves upon their 
knowledge of it. For centuries obscure phenomena 
have been dealt with in the West upon much the same 
principle. When facts could neither be denied nor ex- 
plained they were labelled with a name which sounded as 
if it signified something. The term “hysteria” has 
thus been employed, or rather abused, in medicine, and 
to-day it covers a multitude of phenomena which a 


Introduction, 


XIX 


stubborn materialism is utterly incapable of accounting 
for. Take for example those singular collective at- 
tacks of frenz3^ which have periodically been observed 
in many countries, and of which a case has occurred 
during the present year. In these remarkable seizures 
whole communities are affected. The books are full of 
them. They have been recorded for centuries. When 
Europe abounded with monastic and conventual es- 
tablishments they were frequently experienced in nun- 
neries. The Church found an easy explanation of the 
phenomena in attributing them to demoniac possession. 
The Reformation did not put a stop to them. When 
there were no longer secluded communities the attacks 
occurred in rural districts, sometimes involving all the 
inhabitants of a village, sometimes being confined to 
the 3'oung men and maids, and again taking possession 
of the children onl^’. During the early part of this 
century notable disturbances of this kind took place in 
Wales and parts of Ireland. At almost the same time 
what was then “the West” in the United States was 
the scene of frequent similar outbreaks. Often they 
were intimately associated with religious excitement. 
It was during a period of such general disturbance, 
when the air seemed full of malefic cerebral stimulants, 
that Mormonism took its rise. 

In all these cases, as in the well-known though ill- 
understood excitements connected with negro camp- 
meetings, the most prominent phenomenon is the power 
of contagion present. A story is told of a hard-headed 
sceptic, who, while riding in the West with a friend 
one day, came to a stream in which a Mormon mission- 
ary was baptizing converts, while he harangued a 


XX 


Introduction, 


crowd. The travellers alighted and sat down to listen. 
Suddenly the sceptic turned pale, as though about to 
faint, and cried to his companion, “ Take me away!” 
He was helped to his horse, and after riding a mile or 
two partially recovered himself, and turning to his 
friend said : “If you had not taken me away when j^ou 
did I should have plunged into the water with those 
converts. I had lost all control over myself.” This is 
but a typical illustration of the imperative urgency with 
which the mysterious influence operates on such occa- 
sions. We may call this influence hysteria, but we 
shall be as far as ever from understanding the subject, 
and have onl}^ put off the mystery, after the fashion of 
the housemaid who swept the dust about until she lost 
it. Perhaps the theory of h3"pnotic suggestion ma3" 
now afford a clew to the problem. Dr. Carpenter was 
wont to make great play with his hypothesis of “ ex- 
pectant attention.” He held that when the mind was 
strongly wrought up, and anticipating some novel ex- 
perience, or the impact of some potent influence, it was 
possible to produce in it the most surprising hallucina- 
tions. It might at such times be fooled to the top of 
its bent, be cheated bj^ simulated reports of the quies- 
cent sensory nerves, be made to accept air-drawn 
phantoms for objective realities, be induced to confound 
a simple stick of wood with a strongl^^-charged elec- 
trical conductor. Yet Dr. Carpenter was obliged 
finally to admit that expectant attention did not ac- 
count for man3" phenomena; and had he survived to 
this day it is quite possible that he would have wel- 
comed the theory of hypnotic suggestion as tending to 
round out and complete his doctrine. 


Introduction, 


xxi 


What the Psychical Research Society call “ telepathy ” 
is but another phase of the same question, and though 
the exceeding caution which has characterized the inquiry 
thus far is calculated to exhaust the patience of such as 
look for sensational developments only, it is really a 
line of investigation which promises better results than 
the experiments and conjectures of the author of 
“Mental Physiology” and his school. Telepathy in- 
volves recognition of at least some means of communi- 
cation between mind and mind apart from the ordinary 
avenues, and if carried far enough this inquest may 
terminate in the re-discovery of physical and psychical 
truths which were known to the ancients. Intuition, 
however, is not the common heritage, and in such 
measure as Balzac possessed it is known to but few, 
M. Taine does not exactly laugh, but certainly wonders 
at him, because of his theoiy that ‘ ‘ ideas are organized 
beings which exist in the invisible world and influence 
our destinies.” Again, this is a venerable doctrine, but 
it is of a kind which to Balzac must have seemed al- 
most a truism, — for the strength of his creative powers 
was such that the ideas which came to him passed at 
once into actual being for him; and the occult and 
Kabbalistic belief that not only deeds but words and 
thoughts remain forever preserved in the “ astral 
light” must have appeared quite in accord with his 
personal experience so far as the latter went. With 
his views of the importance of Will and Thought in the 
scheme of things, the suggestions of physical science 
even in this line of thought were of a character to stim- 
ulate imagination and encourage daring inquiry". For 
if no act or utterance of any living being leaves the 


xxii Introduction. 

universe exactly as it was ; if in the elastic medium 
which surrounds us the flutter of a gnat’s wing, no less 
than the explosion of a volcano, is registered in vibra- 
tions which must continue to, infinity; if the curse of 
the ruffian, the groan of his d3’ing victim, the sob of 
the bereaved mother, the shout of the charging soldier, 
each in its wa}", and each differently, affects the great 
mundane s^’stem, however impalpabl}^ and imperceptibly" 
to us, — how much more credibly must the fundamental 
cause of all physical action, the energizing Will of man, 
impress itself in its operation upon the sphere corres- 
ponding in nature to its own refined and tenuous sub- 
stance. To the Seer there was no inherent difficulty" 
in such conceptions. Will and Thought were in his 
view not only real things, but, without figure and with- 
out mental reservation, the most real entities in exist- 
ence, and the most influential. 

The truth that thought rules the world has indeed 
been alway"s perceived by the observing, and recog- 
nized directly or indirectly by mankind. Even the 
physical effects of psychological conditions have been 
so generally noted that among the commonplaces of 
speech in most countries are words or phrases attempt- 
ing some definition of these phenomena. When, for in- 
stance, the “personal magnetism” of some prominent 
man is spoken of, what is really meant is the remarka- 
ble development of his volitional energy^ which, when 
exerted to attract and conciliate those who approach 
him, affects them in a peculiar, subtle way, evoking 
their sympathies, and drawing their affections towards 
him, without conscious exercise of their own will and 
judgment. This is domination of weaker wills by a 


Introduction, 


XXlll 


strong one, and it is a kind of manifestation shown by 
common experience to be often associated with the pur- 
suit of large ambitions. The popular explanation of 
such influence is reallj^ an admission of its occult char- 
acter. The term “ personal magnetism ” is intended to 
cover something other than, and beyond the ordinary 
impression made by a pleasant voice, eye, face, or 
manner. It is in fact the popular wa}'^ of expressing 
that limited and imperfect apprehension of the true 
nature of Thought and Will which represents the least 
advanced conceptions on the subject. Balzac’s theory 
of Thought and Will as natural forces, like electricity, 
capable of being concentrated and directed with special 
efiect upon particular objects, on the other hand, may 
be regarded as the expression of an abnormally ex- 
tended view, — as the deduction of a thinker and ex- 
perimentalist whose capacity for analysis and whose 
insight so far exceeded those of the generality of men 
as to give peculiar weight and importance to his con- 
clusions. For this line of research he possessed rare 
and precious aptitudes. Excelling in that creative men- 
tal force which is called imagination perhaps every 
modern save Shakspeare, no man could have been 
better fitted to examine mental processes, to gauge 
their effects, to estimate their significance, and to de- 
fine their nature and scope. No man has ever been 
more thoroughly equipped for this task by knowledge 
of philosophy, science, and human nature. Taine said 
of him that “the immensity of his undertaking was 
almost equalled by the immensity of his erudition.” 
In the fields where it is possible to follow him, many 
have tried to catch him tripping, but few have been 


XXIV 


Introduction. 


repaid by any discovery of error on his part. What he 
knew — and it was much — he knew with a surprising 
thoroughness. He was no smatterer, though he took 
all knowledge for his domain. No such blunders as 
Goethe made in the law of optics can be charged 
against Balzac. It is only in regard to his theories 
concerning that region of physiological psychology 
which remains no- man’s land still that any of his 
critics have ventured to question his accuracy; and 
in all that pertains to that region dogmatism is 
prohibited by the uniform failure of at least the 
average human intelligence to solve the central prob- 
lems involved. 

While recognizing the power of Thought, however, 
Balzac perceived in it a destructive, as well as a con- 
structive eflSciency ; and this view it is which he has 
especially illustrated in “ The Magic Skin.” Here also 
he onW went before his contemporaries and predeces- 
sors in degree, not in kind. The idea that the mind 
might exhaust, wear out the body, had long been en- 
tertained. Thus Fuller, speaking of the Duke of Alva, 
says: “He was one of a lean body and visage, as if 
his eager soul, biting for anger at the clog of his body, 
desired to fret a passage through it.” So also Diyden, 
in a familiar passage, describes — 

“ A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretted the pygmy body to decay, 

And o’er-informed the tenement of clay.” 

Shakspeare has many similar allusions. But Balzac’s 
philosophy included analysis of the consequences, not 
only of use, but abuse of the thinking power, and he 


Introduction. 


XXV 


wrote “ The Magic Skin ” as a commentary upon one ot 
the salient evils of modern civilization : the increasing 
tendency to excess generated by the headlong pace at 
which existence is carried on, and stimulated by the 
intenseness of competition, and the enhanced attrac- 
tiveness of the objects of human desire. M. Taine, 
already cited, has given his picture of the kind of life 
drawn b}^ the author of the “ ComMie Humaine.” It 
was in that turbulent scene that he watched the expan- 
sion of what he held to be suicidal habits among the 
most energetic and capable members of societ}". Paris 
apart, there is no place second to New York, probably, 
in the eager adoption of the same business cult. As 
Taine sa3^s of his own capital, everything has been 
subordinated to “ success’" in the American metropolis. 
There, as in Paris, all the energies of thousands are 
directed to the one end, and vitalit}" is expended upon its 
attainment with a lavishness which not seldom entails 
the penalty of incapacity for enjoyment when the long 
sought quarry is at length run down. 

“The Magic Skin” ought, indeed, to be a familiar 
and easily apprehended symbol in this country, for too 
many of our young men have made Raphael’s rash 
choice, and undergone Raphael’s punishment. This 
part of the allegory, at least, is very transparent. The 
Eastern talisman is the undisciplined lust of worldly 
success, indulgence in which shortens life literally 
and directly by exhausting the nervous energy. The 
old bric-a-brac dealer expounds the doctrine in his 
speech warning the desperate 3’outh against the awful 
contract proposed in the Arabic inscription on the 
skin. 


xxvi Introduction, 

The influence of strong ideas socially is a favorite 
theme with Balzac. In fact it constitutes so intimate 
an element in his social theory that he treats it in a 
great variety of ways. M. Felix Davin wrote, in 
1834, a general introduction to the fourth edition of 
the “Philosophical Studies,” and as this paper was 
prepared avowedly under the inspiration of Balzac, 
its statements and explanations are trustworthy. M. 
Davin devotes considerable space to this question of 
the general treatment of what may be called “domi- 
nant ideas ” in the “ Studies of Manners.” The author, 
he observes, is constantly exhibiting the irritation and 
aggravation of instincts by ideas, the consequent gener- 
ation of passion, and the disorganizing effects pro- 
duced by the operation of social influences upon this 
resultant. And he names several stories, such as 
“ Adieu,” “ El Verdugo,” “ Le Requisitionnaire,” “ Un 
Drame au bord de la mer,” “Cesar Birotteau,” etc., 
in all of which, life is destro3"ed hy excessive thought, 
ideation, or imagination. The maternal love, family 
pride, greed of inheritance, anger, fear of shame, each 
in turn appears as the lethal instrument, and kills the 
victims as surel}^ as knife, cord, or poison could do. 
The tendency to excess is so strongly" marked a char- 
acteristic of the present time that no careful and in- 
telligent study of it can be other than interesting. It 
happens, too, that the Paris of Balzac’s time was so far 
in advance of the rest of the world in relation to whirl 
and fever and fury of life that the rest of the world 
has consumed a generation in getting to where the 
French capital was then. One consequence of this is 
that Balzac’s descriptions of his own period appear. 


Introduction, 


xxvii 


especially so far as concerns his Paris observations, to 
be contemporary records, and to bear the very form 
and pressure of the time. With the general increase 
of wealth and luxury, the temptations to excess in the 
use of acquisitive means have multiplied enormously, 
while degrees of prosperity which half a century ago 
were thought scarcely attainable are now so far down 
in the scale of possibilities that the truly ambitious no 
longer regard them as deserving serious consideration. 

The episode of the banquet at Taillefer’s (who fig- 
ures in “ L’Auberge rouge” in a very sinister role) was 
originally published separately ; and the guests, oddly 
enough, were given the names of living writers and 
poets. Victor Hugo and Thiers, among others, were 
thus exhibited, and Balzac does not appear to have 
thought that they had any cause of complaint. Con- 
sidering the state of the Paris press at the time, perhaps 
they had not ; for the period was one of gross person- 
alities, and French journalism was incrediblj" licentious 
and not less incredibly corrupt. When the banquet 
scene was put in its proper place in the completed 
story the real names were exchanged for the fictitious 
ones which appear at present. This episode is but the 
machinery for introducing Raphael’s story of the coun- 
tess Fedora, the woman without a heart, and this is 
another figure. Fedora is symbolical of Society, which 
lives for itself and its own pleasures and luxuries ; 
which is polished, cold, indifferent, yet desirous of 
obtaining gratuitous!}" the best of all the lives attracted 
by its glitter and ostentation ; which allures by its air 
of distinction, its parade of wealth, its affectation of 
exclusiveness, its versatility and surface show of inteb 


xxviii Introduction. 

lect and wit ; and which is, like the beautiful and fasci. 
nating Russian, absolutely void of heart, and scarcely 
capable of feigning sensibility enough to make a deco- 
rous appearance. 

Raphael brings to this siren all the treasures of 
youth. The discipline of his adolescence, the stern 
rigor of his garret life, the nature of his studies and his 
intellectual tendencies and preferences, maj" all be re- 
garded as pages from Balzac’s autobiography. The 
“ Treatise of the Will ” referred to is his own college 
experiment, so cruelly crushed by the fatal imbecility of 
a booby teacher. Emerging from his garret, however, 
Raphael enters a realm which is pure fiction. There 
is never any hope for him, and perhaps he perceives 
this, though he cannot relinquish his pursuit of the 
heartless Fedora. But Raphael himself is not a char- 
acter calculated to attract much sympathy. Designed 
to illustrate Balzac’s theory of the baleful social effect 
of excess, he exhibits from the first an absorbed ego- 
ism, which puts him morally almost on a level with the 
Society he learns to hate and despise. There is little 
nobility in the youth. He possesses marked intellectual 
ability, but little heart. The suffering he endures from 
Fedora appears to be mainly inflicted upon his vanity. 
His love for the countess is something between a ca- 
price and a calculation. It has in it scarcely any spon- 
taneity, and when at last the futility of his devotion 
is realized, and he determines upon suicide, his motive 
is clearly not merely despairing love, but discouraged 
ambition. Of course Balzac meant all this to be so. 
The possessor of the magic skin must be a self-indul- 
gent, egoistic pei'son. He could not possibly be a 


Introduction, 


xxlx 


man of the Benassis type in the “ Country Doctor/* 
Raphael desires enjoyment, even gross, sensual enjoy- 
ment ; and to obtain it he is willing to risk his life, as 
he has already risked and lost, first his opportunities, 
and then his property. No doubt the infiuence of 
Fedora counts for much in his depravation. She has 
hardened and roughened him, killed in him all confi- 
dence in womanhood, fostered in him the cynicism 
whose germs were inherited, and confirmed in him all 
the selfish propensities with which he began life. But the 
young man is none the less the natural possessor of 
the talisman, so far as his abstract ideas are concerned. 
It seems to him that he will hesitate at nothing in fol- 
lowing out his self-indulgent fancies. In effect, the 
moment he fully realizes the nature of the contract into 
which he has entered, all possibility of enjoying his 
newly-acquired power vanishes for him ; and this is the 
logical and inevitable consequence of the same egoism 
that led him to accept the magic skin. 

Here the parable is plain. The abuse of Will and 
Thought brings its natural penalty. The man who de- 
votes himself to the attainment of material ends is liable 
to find, when the goal is reached, that he is no longer 
capable of enjoying the prize. Raphael, with the 
magic skin hanging on his wall, and the effects of the 
expenditure of will-power under his eyes, is paratyzed. 
Desire means death to him, and to avoid it he must 
vegetate, live by line and plummet, ward off all excit- 
ing causes, and above all shun everything that ma}’ 
induce him to wish anything. It would not be possible 
to conceive a more tremendous satire than this, and 
yet it is not an exaggeration of the actual, but merely 


XXX 


Introduction, 


a new way of presenting it. What Raphael suffers 
from the contraction of the magic skin is precisely what 
living men suffer who have abused their will-power in 
pursuing success in material things. They are in the 
position of Tantalus. With the means in their hands 
to obtain everything, they are disabled from attempting 
to procure anything. They can only watch the shrink- 
ing talisman which holds their life, and limit their de- 
sires to the attainment of a state of existence as closely 
resembling annihilation as possible. This is what the 
talisman has brought Raphael at the beginning of the 
third part, and this is the most deeply philosophical 
division of the book, as well as the most strikingly 
impressive and dramatic. 

Raphael, the disillusionized student, who at the 
opening of the tale has resolved to end his misery by 
suicide, appears, at the beginning of the third part, 
strangely metamorphosed. The reckless youth who 
wished, when the talisman was first offered to him, to 
die at the culmination of a wild debauch, has been 
brought to desire life with an intense longing, merely 
as life. The possession of the means by which his 
every wish can be gratified has suddenly checked his 
fierce acquisitiveness, — not, however, because he has 
gained any loftier view of the value and purpose of 
existence, but because in his final struggle we are to 
be shown egoism engaged in death-grapple with itself. 
Raphael is a type of modern civilization, of the eager 
self-seeker, the selfish fortune-hunter and money- 
grubber, who estimates everything in accordance with 
its real or fancied usefulness to himself. But precisely 
because he places his personality above everything else 


Introduction. 


xxxi 


he is unable to carry out the plan of self-indulgence he 
had conceived in his poverty and distress. The sight of 
the talisman which unmans him is the realization of the 
phj’sical effects of his career of fierce desire. The ex- 
cess of his passions, the intensit}^ of his greed, has 
sapped his vitality, and at the moment when the 
wealth for which he has striven so desperately is in his 
hands, the tide of life begins to ebb. 

He isolates himself, seeks to protect himself against 
every incitement to further desire, deliberately adopts 
a vegetative existence, and finds his sole remaining 
satisfaction in the oft- tested assurance that by this 
means he has arrested the shrinkage of the talisman. 
But in a struggle so complicated, by a nature so de- 
praved, the holding of a steady course for any length 
of time is impracticable. The dominant egoism of his 
temperament will not be always cool and calculating 
and restrained. Waves of imperious desire will at in- 
tervals rise and sweep away the most prudent resolu- 
tions when the onl}^ object of action is self-gratification. 
In one of these periods of excitation he yields to what 
must be regarded as the nearest approach to real love 
of which he is capable. But the limits of the purity of 
this passion are rigidly drawn, and Balzac has marked 
them plainly. When first Raphael finds Pauline at the 
opera, he is drawn to her by a sentiment of real affec- 
tion. This continues to infiuence him when they meet 
in his old room in the Hotel Saint-Quentin. During 
this period the talisman does not shrink, for emotion 
of the higher kind does not exhaust vitality, but rather 
recruits it. When, however, the lovers have come to- 
gether and are married, Raphael’s passion at once be- 


XXXll 


Introduction, 


comes materialized, and he is made to learn very soon 
that he can only gratify it at the expense of his life. 

With this discovery the frailty of his love for Pauline 
is disclosed. The old terror reclaims the master}^ over 
him. Once more he banishes every one from his cham- 
ber, and returns to the dull routine of vegetation. Here 
Balzac takes the opportunity to satirize modern science, 
in the scenes in which Raphael is seeking the means of 
destroying the fatal talisman. The futile attempts of 
the zoologist, the mechanician, and the chemist to ex- 
plain, to analj'ze, and to make away with the magic 
skin, though reflecting most damagingly upon the or- 
thodox classification and limitation of natural laws, do 
not at all disturb these savants,, who are quite unani- 
mous in the conclusion that if the facts are against 
them, so much the worse for the facts. In a subse- 
quent chapter medicine is handled in the same spirit of 
mordant satire, — the esoteric object of the author being 
to illustrate the manner in which egoism aflects even 
Science, by subordinating the reverence for Truth to 
the personal pride and vanity of its professors, and 
thus impelling them to mask systematic charlatanism 
and hypocrisy under social conventions. The eminent 
physicians called in consultation over Raphael’s myste- 
rious malady care nothing for the patient, and little for 
the higher aims of their own profession. Doubtless each 
would be glad to chronicle a cure if it redounded to the 
credit of his special theory; but neither is generous 
enough to be gratified by a success which traverses his 
own views. In order to hoodwink the public and main- 
tain the semblance of harmony in the profession, they 
affect for one another’s opinions a respect which they 


Introduction, 


xxxiii 


are far from feeling ; and they are one and all deaf and 
blind to the possibilities of phenomena in any way 
transcending the narrow limits of their materialistic 
training. It is to be observed, also, that nothing could 
be more modern than this remarkable consultation. It 
might have been held last year, or yesterday. It em- 
bodies the spirit of the whole century, and symbolizes 
traits of the present civilization, which appear to deepen 
with the increasing complexity of social life. 

The attempt of Raphael to get rid of the talisman by 
force or craft, to annihilate it by violence, or to dis- 
solve it by chemical reagents, could never have been 
realh’ hopeful to him, though he tried to busy himself 
with the fantasy. He knew, as must every victim to 
the prevailing cult of egoism, the conditions upon 
which he held his remnant of vitalit3\ He knew — 
for had not the old bric-a-brac dealer told him? — 
that whoso signed the mj’stic compact, by accepting 
possession of the talisman, was thereby committed to 
the end, and could no more draw back than could a 
man who, having thrown himself from the summit of 
the Vendome column, should repent and try to return 
to safety. But the desire for survival was so strong 
that he could not reconcile himself to the facts ; and he 
was, as it were, compelled to try every avenue which 
seemed by an}* play of fanc}^ to suggest the possibility 
of escape. When ever}* essay has failed, he takes the 
advice of his medical men, and, coolly deserting Pau- 
line without even a farewell word, journeys to a fash- 
ionable spa. His life there is a development of his 
secluded existence in his own hotel. The luxur}" of his 
establishment excites the admiration and envy of the 


c 


xxxiv 


Introduction, 


other guests, and his absorption in himself arouses their 
dislike and finally their hatred. 

This is a very deep study of societ}^ If, on the one 
hand, selfishness is the mainspring of the social organi- 
zation, experience has proved that, on the other hand, 
mutual sacrifices are necessary to the due gratification 
and permanent maintenance of the pride of personalit3^ 
Society flatters that it may be flattered ; cajoles that it 
maj" be cajoled ; caresses that it may be caressed ; pre- 
tends to think well of its members that they may pre- 
tend to think well of it. He who, while under the 
social obligations which are inseparable from the pos- 
session of wealth, repudiates his social duties, despises 
and neglects all the conventional h3'pocrisies hy which 
it is sought to cloak the pervading egoism, and insists 
on parading his own selfishness, naturally" and brutally, 
mortall}^ wounds this artificial organism, and inevitably 
makes of it an active and implacable enem,y. He is a 
traitor to the unwritten constitution of modern civili- 
zation. He is an anarchist, whose baleful example 
threatens the whole fabric of deceit, and pretence, and 
sham chivalr}", and make-believe refinement, and dis- 
guised greed and lust and self-seeking. He is the 
more disgusting and hateful in that he shows society 
itself as it feels and knows it reallj" is ; and since there 
remains a somewhat of good in things evil, since in the , 
most corrupt periods vice pays to virtue the homage of 
hypocrisy, such a disclosure cannot but be humiliating 
and exasperating. 

Therefore the society of the spa is leagued against 
him ; and when an attempt to compass his removal by 
persuasion has failed, a quarrel is fastened upon him. 


Introduction, 


XXXV 


and he is entangled in a duel. Here again his domi- 
nant egoism controls him against his plainest interests. 
He cannot protect himself in the duel save by exerting 
his will-power, and thus causing the magic skin to 
shrink ; but his pride has been stung, and he is re- 
solved to give his enemies a sharp lesson, even though 
he suffers for it himself. The same ignoble impulse 
proves too strong for his prudence when, after killing 
his antagonist, he comes, while travelling, to a village 
where the people are enjoying a holiday. Soured by 
the spectacle of all this life and jollity, he yields to the 
suggestion of his misanthropy, and squanders another 
portion of his fast-fading vitality in calling down a sud- 
den storm on the heads of the merry-makers. After 
the duel he makes one more desperate effort to recover 
his fleeting forces. Societ}" has expelled him, and con- 
tact with it only irritates and exhausts him. He will 
now essay, in a modified form, the prescription which 
Mephistopheles offered to Faust in the Witch’s Kitchen, 
as the alternative with the hag’s elixir. There is, says 
Mephistopheles, another way of attaining old age : — 

“ Begieb dich gleich hinaus aufs Feld, 

Fang’ an zu hacken und zu graben, 

Erhalte dich und deinen Sinn 
In einem ganz beschrankten Kreise, 

Ernahre dich mit ungemischter Speise, 

Leb’ mit dem Vieh als Vieh, — ” 

and thus a term of eighty years may be secured. Ra- 
phael throws himself upon the bosom of Nature, and 
endeavors to lead a purely natural life, among the sim- 
plest peasants, and in the most invigorating mountain 


xxxvi 


Introduction. 


air. For a short time be imagines that the experiment 
will succeed; but it is not of bodily ailments he is 
dying, and the consuming power of undisciplined desire 
— the effects of mental excess — have proceeded too far 
in the work of disorganization for any remedy attain- 
able by him. The constant sight of healthy animal life 
about him tears his selfish soul with anguish, and gen- 
erates longings which, despite ever}" effort at self- 
restraint, are registered in the inexorable contractions 
of the talisman. 

At last he realizes the futility of his career and sul- 
lenly, despairingly, returns to Paris to face death. The 
last brief scene in this powerful allegory is at once the 
most daring and significant in the book. It expresses 
the utter degradation of the victim of modern civiliza- 
tion. It is the type of which the Baron Hulot, in “La 
Cousine Bette ” is the individualization. A career of 
self-indulgence and self-seeking has extinguished the 
last spark of intellectuality in Raphael. There remain 
in his moribund organism only the animal desires. The 
habit and instinct of self-preservation have caused him 
to drive the loving, faithful Pauline from his side. 
When, at the very close, she makes her way to him, 
and he perceives that the end is at hand, his last feeble 
volitional impulse is toward the gratification of the 
lowest form of passion, at no matter what expense ; and 
even in the act of dying this brutal impulse is crossed 
by another not less base, which finds expression in a 
futile attempt to tear his mistress with his teeth. He 
desires her as a Sat3T might ; yet at the same supreme 
moment his expiring egoism resents in her the exciting 
'“-ause of the catastrophe. This is the enforcement of the 


Introduction. 


xxxvii 


author’s axiom that excess in Will and Thought operates 
as a dissolvent ; that it tends to destroy’ both the society 
and the individual that indulge it ; that it is suicidal, and 
kills not only the physical, but the psychical elements in 
man. But this is not the whole of the moral. Excess 
in all things, Balzac holds, is the distinctive character- 
istic of modem civilization, but excess in the pursuit of 
purely selfish aims is of all kinds the most deadly and 
disorganizing. And the course of modern society is a 
vicious circle ; it enforces and it suffers from the pre- 
vailing cult of Egoism. All its highest prizes are re- 
served for the victors in life’s battle, — those, in other 
words, whose greed and unscrupulousness and dogged 
materialism enable them to trample upon and plunder 
weaker competitors; but through this apotheosis of 
ignoble qualities and capacities society dooms itself to 
perpetual Philistinism, strife, and vulgaritj*. Its stan- 
dards are so low that there can be no honor nor satisfac- 
tion in attaining to them. Its favorite pursuits are so 
frivolous as to put a premium upon imbecility and to 
handicap merit and capacity. The excess which it fos- 
ters, consequently, is never in the direction of true 
aspiration, but always earthly, sensual, devilish, — 
such in fact as is typified here in the life and death of 
Raphael de Valentin, the wretched possessor of the 
magic skin. 

In his Epilogue Balzac has dealt with Pauline so 
m3^stically as to confound the critics, who have guessed 
at the intended meaning as variousl}’ as in the case of the 
Second Part of Goethe’s “ Faust.” Yet there is not any 
deep mystery in the matter. I’auline Gaudin typifies true 
and faithful womanly love. She is a foil, both exoterl 


XXXVlll 


Introduction. 


ically and esoterically, to the heartless, cold-blooded 
Fedora. She is a foil also to the selfishness of Raphael. 
She stands for all the tenderest emotions and qualities 
of self-abnegating love. From the first she is seen sac- 
rificing herself to Raphael. When he inhabits the attic 
in the Hotel Saint-Quentin, and congratulates himself 
upon the success of his parsimonious budget, he is 
really Pauline’s pensioner, and would starve to death 
but for the devoted industr}^ and delicate self-sacrifice 
of this amiable creature. There is a terrible stroke of 
irony, drawn straight from human experience, more- 
over, in the complacency with which Raphael accepts 
this silent aid ; in the transparent form of self-deception 
indulged by him when Pauline pretends to have found 
some money while sweeping his room. He tries to per- 
suade himself that the stor3" is credible, but he knows 
well enough where the coins so opportunely discovered 
come from, and it is not impossible that he has his 
suspicions also regarding the unfailing supplies of clean 
linen and bread and milk. He affects indeed to repay 
her with instruction, but it is clear that during his tuto- 
rial experience the chief benefit remains with him. 

She, however, has no reservations for the man she 
loves. It is enough happiness for such a nature to feel 
that it is doing good to the object of its affection. Pau- 
line knows well that Raphael is paying his addresses to 
the Countess Fedora. He, with characteristic masculine 
obtuseness, makes her his confidant, and wrings her 
gentle bosom with the eager recapitulation of his hopes 
and longings. Through all this she never betrays 
jealousy or petulance. He, she thinks, is so good, so 
great, so far above her, that it is altogether natural for 


Introduction. 


xxxix 


him to adore fine ladies, women of title and position, 
wealth}^ widows'. Nor is there the least self-conscious- 
ness about Pauline. She is sometimes depressed, but 
she does not appear to ask herself why. In Raphael’s 
presence she is simply, naturally happy. She takes 
what the gods provide, humbly, thankfully, and whether 
she is thought little or much of she is ready to make any 
and every renunciation in her power for her friend. 
When they come together she is the happiest of the 
lives only for her Raphael. When he so 
harshly repels her, moved by his selfish fears and the 
shrinking of the talisman, no complaint is heard from 
her ; and after he returns from his cruel desertion she 
utters her grief only in the touching little letter which 
he finds awaiting him. He has never confided his secret 
to her. Had he done so she would have protected him 
far more effectually than he could protect himself. But 
when in the closing scene she realizes the truth her first 
impulse is to kill herself, to the end that a cause of dan- 
ger to him — as she thinks — may be removed. Pauline 
is a beautiful ideal, and may further be regarded as 
symbolizing the superior purity and elevation of true 
womanly love as contrasted with the emotions which 
fill so large a space in the life of the average modern 
male egoist. She is not indeed what would be called a 
strong-minded woman, but Balzac never could perceive 
the attraction of that kind of character. Like most 
men of masterful intellect, he believed in feminine qual- 
ities especially, and rather shrank from the modern 
tendenc3^ to cultivation of masculine capacities and 
characteristics in women. 

Vast as was Balzac’s performance, it could not keep 


xl 


Introduction, 


pace with the prodigious fecundity of his mind. Thus 
while he had always, during the twenty years of his 
labor on the “ Coinedie Humaine,” several works in 
hand simultaneously, at the same time he had as con- 
stantly in view several more which he found no time to 
write. The plan of the ‘‘Comedie Huraaine” com- 
prised a series to be called “Analytical Studies,” but 
only the “Physiology of Marriage,” and some short 
pieces belonging to this division, were published. It 
was his intention to follow up “La Peau de Chagrin,” 
with a novel to be entitled ‘ ‘ L’Histoire de la Succes- 
sion du Marquis de Carabas.” This work was an- 
nounced by M. Ph. Chasles in his introduction to 
“ La Peau de Chagrin,” and by M. Felix Davin, in his 
introduction to the “ Philosophical Studies,” and all 
that is known of its subject is derived from what is 
there said, which is to the effect that it was intended to 
show society at large a prey to the same impotence 
which devours Raphael in “La Peau de Chagrin,” and 
agonizing under the same real wretchedness, springing 
from the same fierceness of desire, and disguised by the 
same external brilliancy, which in the extant work are 
illustrated in their relation to individualism. It was 
the purpose of Balzac, first, to describe life as it is, in 
all its phases, as affected by modern civilization ; hav- 
ing accomplished this he proposed tracing effects to 
their causes ; and finally he intended to point out, as 
far as possible, the social and other tendencies which, 
resisting the disorganizing influences of the times, con- 
stitute the justification for hope concerning the future. 
This explanation should be kept in mind by those who 
may be inclined to regard the phUosophy of “The Magic 


Introduction, 


xli 


Skill ” as pessimistic. In fact when the work appeared 
some of Balzac’s friends raised that very objection. To 
one of them, the Duchess de Castries, he replied: “1 
shall defend myself against your charges by one word : 
this work is not intended to remain alone ; it contains 
the premises of a work which I shall be proud to have 
attempted, even if I fail in the enterprise.” He then re- 
fers to the introduction written by M. Philarete Chasles 
to “La Peau de Chagrin,” and says, “You will see 
by that, that if sometimes I destroy, I also endeavor 
sometimes to reconstruct.” What M. Chasles wrote on 
the subject is as follows: “Faith and Love escaping 
from men given over to intellectual culture ; Faith and 
Love exiling themselves to leave all these proud souls 
in a measureless desert of egoism, penned up in their 
intense personality, — such is the goal of M. du Balzac’s 
stories.” This purpose was defeated by the untimely 
death of the great writer; but in a few minor pieces 
such as that entitled “Jesus Christ in Flanders,” he 
has outlined his ideas concerning the renaissance of 
faith and moral purity his observation led him to 
look for in the social stratum from which Christianity 
arose. 

It is quite possible to read The Magic Skin,” simply 
as a story, without paying any attention to the allegory. 
This no doubt is the aspect in which it was regarded 
when it was first published, not only by the public, but 
by the majority of the critics. Balzac indeed com- 
plained in his correspondence, that his types had not 
been recognized ; and this is probable, and even natural. 
For Balzac so filled all his creations with that white 
heat of imaginative energy which inspired him, that the 


xlii 


Introduction, 


vitalism and the naturalness of his characters give 
them an individualism, a humanity’, altogether unlike 
the marionettes which figure in ordinary allegories. 

‘ ‘ The Magic Skin ” ma}’ consequently be looked upon 
as merely a clever orientalized tale, the machinery of 
which is distinguished by peculiar skill of invention 
and deftness of manipulation. Perhaps it is only those 
who know the “ Comedie Humaine” as a whole, and 
have followed the growing purposes of the author, who 
will thoroughly appreciate this book. Yet inasmuch as 
there certainlj^ is a marked current of tendency at the 
present time toward serious views of society, civiliza- 
tion, and human relations generall}', while there exists 
a no less distinct reaction against dogmatic materialism 
and the arrogant presumption of a science which is too 
often sciolism, it has been thought worth while to 
offer to such as may care to use it the means of pene- 
trating and apprehending the author’s sj^mbolism and 
his esoteric meaning. It must, however, be said that 
in “The Magic Skin” we are but on the threshold of 
Balzac’s philosophy. What has been set down here is 
indeed necessarj^ to a full understanding of the present 
volume, but the principles here applied constitute only 
a part of a system, and to grasp that system as a whole 
“Louis Lambert” and “Seraphita” will have to be 
read and studied. In the former of these remarkable 
works will be found a body of thought embracing many 
ideas and speculations interest in which has been 
revived recently. That theory of the Will which is 
referred to so often in “The Magic Skin,’ is in 
“Louis Lambert” fully expounded. It is true that 
the same theory really underlies almost the whole of 


Introduction. 


xliii 


the “ Comedie Humaine,” but it is in this triad of 
works that it is elaborated, and each of them is there- 
fore necessary to the comprehension of the others, 
though, regarded merely as tales, each may be read by 
itself. 


George Frederic Parsons. 





THE MAGIC SKIN. 


Tristram Shandy, Chap. CCXXXIH 

PART I. 

THE TALISMAN. 

Toward the close of October last, a j’oung man 
entered the Palais-Royal, at the hour when the gam- 
bling-houses opened in conformit}^ with the law, which 
protects a passion essentiall}^ taxable. Without much 
hesitation, he passed up the staircase of the hell which 
went by the name of “Number 36.” 

“ Monsieur, 3 ’our hat, if you please,” called out in a 
sharp, remonstrative voice, a pallid old man, who was 
squatting in a dark corner behind a railing, and who 
now rose suddenly, showing a face of an ignoble type. 

When you enter a gambling-house the law begins by 
depriving you of your hat. Is that meant as an evan- 
gelical and ghostly parable? May it not rather be 
a means of clinching an infernal bargain by exacting 
something of you as a pledge ? Can it be intended to 
force you into a respectful attitude toward those who 
win your money? Do the police, lurking near every 
social sink-hole, insist on knowing the very name of 
your hatter, or your own if 3 ’ou have written it on the 

1 


2 


The Magic Skin. 

lining? Is it to take the measure of your skull and 
evolve some instructive statistics on the cerebral ca- 
pacity of gamblers? On this subject the government is 
impenetrably silent. But you must plainly understand 
that no sooner have 3’ou made a step toward the green 
table, than your hat no more belongs to 3'ou than j^ou 
belong to yourself ; j^ou are a stake, — 3’ou, j’our money, 
your hat, your cane, 3^our cloak. When 3’ou depart from 
that hell. Play will show 3^ou, by a malevolent epigram 
in action, that it still leaves j'OU something, hy returning 
your hat. We may remark that if it is a new one, 3’ou 
will learn to 3’our cost that in future you. must wear 
gamblers’ clothes. 

The astonishment of the young man on receiving a 
numbered ticket in exchange for his hat, whose edges 
were fortunately a good deal rubbed, proved that his 
soul was still innocent ; and the little old man, who had 
no doubt wallowed from his 3'outh up among the seeth- 
ing pleasures of a gambling- house, threw him a dull, 
bleak glance, in which a philosopher would have seen 
all the horrors of hospitals, the vagrant homelessness 
of ruined men, police reports of suicides, condemnations 
to hard labor for life, transportation to penal colonies. 
This man, whose long, white face had sureh’ no other 
nourishment than the gelatinous soups of Arcet, was 
the pale image of Passion brought to its natural end. 
In his wrinkles lurked the traces of old tortures. He 
must have plaj^ed awa}^ his meagre salary on the very 
day he received it. Like an old hack horse on whom 
the whip makes no impression, nothing made him shud- 
der; the smothered groans of players as the}’ took 
their hats and went out ruined, their mute impreca- 


The Magic Skin. 


3 


lions, their dazed e^^es, left him unmoved. He was 
Play incarnate. If the 3’oimg man had stopped to 
consider this pitiable Cerberus, perhaps he might have 
said to himself, “ Nothing is left in that heart but a game 
of cards ! ’’ He did not listen to this living warning, 
placed there, no doubt, by Providence, who has sta- 
tioned Disgust at the door of eveiy evil haunt. He 
resolutel}" entered a room where the chink of gold was 
exercising its dazzling fascination over the eager lust 
of covetousness. In all probability the 3^oung man was 
driven to this place b3' that most logical of Jean- Jacques 
Rousseau’s sa3dngs : “Yes, I can Conceive of a man 
rushing to the gambling-table, but not until he sees, 
between himself and death, only his last penn3'.” 

The gambling-houses have onty a vulgar poetr3" about 
them, but its effect is as certain as that of a blood- 
thirsty drama. The halls are lined with spectators and 
pla3’ers, indigent old men who drag themselves to the 
place for warmth, gamblers with convulsed faces, bear- 
ing marks of orgies begun in wine and read3" to ter- 
minate in the Seine. But, though passion abounds, 
the crowd of actors and spectators prevent an observer 
from deliberate^ considering, face to face, the demon 
of pla3% The scene goes on like a concerted piece in 
which the whole troupe takes part, every instrument of 
the orchestra modulating its assigned passage. You 
will see there man3’ honorable men who seek distraction 
of mind and pay for it as the3^ would for a seat at the 
theatre, or a luxurious dinner, or as they go to some 
garret-room and buy at a base price bitter regrets that 
last them three months. Which of us can fully under- 
stand the delirium and the vigor in a man’s soul, as he 


4 


The Magic Skin, 


waits for the opening of these hells. Between the gam- 
bler in the morning and the gambler at night, there is 
all the difference that exists between the indifferent 
husband and the lover languishing beneath the win- 
dows of his love. In the morning come palpitating 
passion, and want in all its bare-faced horror. It is 
only in the evening that you recognize the true gam- 
bler, the gambler who has neither eaten, nor slept, nor 
lived, nor thought, so powerfully is he scourged b}^ the 
whip of his vice, so deeply has the rot of a mania eaten 
into his being. At that accursed hour you may encoun- 
ter eyes whose calmness is terrifying, faces that mag- 
netize you, glances which seem to lift the cards and 
tear the luck out of them. 

Gambling-houses never rise to an}^ show of dignity, 
except at the hour when they nightly open. Spain may 
have its bull-fights, Rome its gladiators, but Paris 
boasts of her Palais-Ro3'al, whose rattling balls bring 
streams of blood for the pleasure of spectators, though 
the floors are never slippery with it. Cast a furtive 
glance into the arena ; enter — what barrenness ! The 
walls, covered with greas}" paper to a man’s height, 
offer nothing on which the eye can rest intelligently, 
not so much as a nail to facilitate suicide. The floor 
is worn and dirty. An oblong table occupies the 
middle of the room. The plainness of the deal chairs, 
closely set around the green cloth now worn threadbare 
by the raking in of gold, shows a curious indiffer- 
ence to luxur}' in men who come here to perish in 
the quest for it. This human antithesis can be seen 
wherever the soul reacts powerfully on itself. The 
lover desires to put his mistress on silken cushions, and 


The Magic Skin. 


5 


drape her in the soft tissues of Orient, yet for the most 
part he possesses her in a garret. The ambitious man 
dreams of the pinnacles of power, all the while abasing 
himself in the mud of servility. The merchant vege- 
tates in a damp, unhealthy back-shop, and builds a 
splendid mansion from which his son, taking prema- 
ture possession, is driven by fraternal litigation. To 
sum up all in one image, does there exist anything 
more displeasing to the mind than a house of pleasure ? 
Strange problem ! Man, alwa3^s in opposition to him- 
self, alwaj-s cheating his hopes by his present woes, 
and his woes by a future that does not belong to him, 
puts upon every action of his life the impress of incon- 
sistency’ and weakness. Here below, nothing appears 
to be complete but misfortune. 

At the moment when the y’oung man entered the 
room a few players had already assembled. Three 
bald-headed old men were nonchalantly sitting round the 
green cloth ; their faces, like plaster casts, impassible 
as those of diplomatists, duly’ expressed each blunted, 
sated soul, each heart, long since incapable of throb- 
bing, even when its owner staked the marriage jewels 
of a wife. A young Italian with black hair and an 
olive skin was sitting quietly’ with his elbows on the 
table, apparently consulting those fatal inward presenti- 
ments which continually cry in the player’s ear, “ Yes,” 
“No.” His passionate Southern head seemed injected 
with gold and fire. Seven or eight spectators standing 
near were ranged in line, awaiting scenes which the 
turns of the wheel, the faces of the players, the roll of 
the money’, and the scraping of the rakes were prepar- 
ing for them. These idlers stood there silent, motion 


6 


The Magic Skin, 


less, and attentive, like the populace on the place de 
Greve when the headsman drops the axe. A tall, lean 
man in a threadbare coat held a register in one hand 
and in the other a pin to mark the series of the Eed or 
the Black. Like a modern Tantalus, he was one of those 
men who live on the verge of all the enjoyments of their 
epoch, — a miser without a hoard playing an imaginary 
stake, a species of reasoning fool wdio consoles his 
misery by cherishing a chimera, who deals with vice 
and danger as a young priest with the Eucharist when 
he says his trial Mass. 

Sitting opposite to the bank were two or three of those 
shrewd speculators, experts in games of chance, who, 
like old convicts no longer afraid of the galleys, were 
there to risk three stakes, and immediately carry away 
their gains ; on which, no doubt, they lived. Two wait- 
ers were walking nonchalantly about the hall with their 
arms crossed, looking out every now and then into the 
garden of the Palais-Roj'al, as if to show their impassive 
faces for a species of sign to the passers-by. The banker 
and the croupier had just cast upon the punters that ex- 
pressionless glance which stabs a gambler, calling out in 
shrill tones, “ Make your play,” when the young man 
entered the room. The silence became, if possible, more 
intense ; all heads turned with curiosity to the new- 
comer. Then an almost unheard-of thing occuiTed ; 
those blunted old men, the stony attendants, the specta- 
tors, even the fanatical Italian, experienced, as they 
caught sight of the stranger, a feeling of nameless 
terror. A man must indeed be veiy unfortunate to 
obtain pity, very feeble to excite sympathy, or very 
sinister in appearance to cause a shudder in such souls 


The Magic Skin. 


7 


as these, in a hell where sufferings are hushed, where 
misery is gay, despair decent. Yes, there were all such 
elements in the strange sensation which stirred those 
hearts of ice as the young man entered. Executioners 
have been known to weep over the virgin heads they 
were forced to cut off at a signal of the Revolution. 

The players could read at a glance in the face of the 
new-comer the presence of some awful m3"stery; his 
youthful features were stamped with despondency ; his 
e3"e proclaimed the balking of efforts, the betra^^al of a 
thousand hopes ; the dull impassibility of suicide seemed 
to give a wan and sicklj^ pallor to his brow ; a bitter smile 
drew lines around the corners of his mouth ; the whole 
countenance expressed a hopelessness which was terrible 
to see. Some secret gift of genius scintillated in the 
depths of those veiled eyes, — veiled perhaps by the 
fatigues of pleasure. Had debauchery stamped its 
foul signs upon that noble face, once pure and glow- 
ing but now degraded ? Doctors would doubtless have 
attributed the j'ellow circle round the eyelids and the 
hectic color in the cheeks to lesions of the stomach or 
chest, while poets would have recognized in those same 
signs the ravages of science, the havoc of nights spent 
in study b^’ the midnight oil. But a passion more fatal 
than disease, a disease more relentless than stud}^ or 
genius marred that j’outhful head, contracted those 
vigorous muscles, and wrung the heart that had scarcely 
touched the surface of orgies, or study, or disease. 
As the convicts at the galleys hail with respect some 
celebrated criminal when he arrives among them, so 
these human demons, experts in torture, bowed before 
an amazing grief, an awful wound they had the eyes to 


8 


The Magic Skin, 


see, recognizing one of their own princes in the dignity 
of his mute anguish and the elegant poverty of his 
garments. He wore a frock coat of fashionable ap- 
pearance, but the junction of his cravat with his waist- 
coat was too carefully arranged not to betray the fact 
that he had no shirt. His hands, pretty as those of a 
woman, were of doubtful cleanliness, and for the last 
two days he had worn no gloves. If the banker, the 
croupier, and even the waiters shuddered, it was because 
the charms of innocence and youth still lingered along 
the slender, delicate outlines, and among the fair though 
scanty locks which curled naturally. The face was 
that of a man of twenty- five, and vice seemed to be 
there by accident. The vigorous life of 3'outh still 
fought against the ravages of an impotent lubricity. 
Darkness and light, annihilation and existence, strug- 
gled together, producing a result that was full of grace 
and full of horror. The 3’oung man came into the 
room like an angel without a halo who had lost his 
way. For an instant those present, professors emeritus 
of vice and infamy, like toothless old women seized 
with pity for a j^oung girl who offers herself to corrup- 
tion, were on the verge of crying out to him ; “ Away ! 
come not in ! ” 

He, however, walked straight to the table and stood 
there, throwing upon the cloth, without a moment’s 
calculation, a piece of gold which he held in his hand 
and which rolled upon the Black ; then, like all strong 
souls who abhor uncertainties, he looked at the dealer 
with an e3’e that was both turbulent and calm. The 
interest excited b}’ his throw became so great that the 
old men did not make their stakes ; but the Italian, 


Tile Magic Skin, 


9 


seizing, with the fanaticism of passion, an idea which 
suddenly possessed him, plumped his pile of gold on 
the Red in opposition to the play of the stranger. The 
dealer forgot to utter the usual phrases which have 
come by long usage to be a mere hoarse unintelligible 
cry : ** Make your play ; ’’ “ The game is made ; ” Bets 
are closed.’’ He spread out the cards, and seemed 
to wish good luck for the new-comer, indifferent as he 
was to the loss or gain of the devotees of these gloomy 
pleasures. Each spectator knew that he watched a 
drama and saw the closing scene of a glorious life in 
the fate of that piece of gold; their eyes gleamed 
as they fixed them on the fateful cards ; yet, in spite 
of the attention with which they gazed alternately at 
the player and at the bits of pasteboard, not a sign of 
emotion was seen on the cold, resigned face of the 
young man. 

“ Red wins ! ” said the dealer, officially. 

A species of strangled rattle came from the Italian’s 
chest as he saw the bank-bills which the banker threw 
him fall one by one in a little heap. As for the young 
man he did not comprehend his ruin until the rake 
stretched out to gather in his last napoleon. The ivory 
instrument struck the coin with a sharp sound, and it 
shot with the rapidity of an arrow into the mass of gold 
spread out before the banker. The young man gently 
closed his eyes, his lips whitened ; but soon he raised 
his eyelids, his mouth regained its coral redness, he as- 
sumed the manner of an Englishman who thinks that 
for him life has no mysteries, and then he disappeared 
from the room without asking consolation by a single 
harrowing look, such as despairing gamblers sometimes 


10 


The Magic Skin, 


cast on the spectators who line the walls. How many 
events were compressed into the space of that second ; 
how many things into that single throw of the dice ! 

“His last cartridge, no doubt,” said the croupier, 
smiling, after a moment’s silence, during which he held 
the bit of gold between his finger and thumb and showed 
to those about him. 

“He is half-crazy now, and he’ll be found in the 
Seine,” said a frequenter of the place, looking round at 
the other players, who all knew each other. 

“Bah!” said one of the waiters, taking a pinch of 
snuff. 

“What a pity we did not do as you did, monsieur,” 
said one of the old men to the Italian. 

Everybody looked at the luckj^ player, whose hands 
were trembling as he counted his bank-notes. 

“I heard a voice,” he answered, “which cried in my 
ear, ‘ The Red wins against his despair.’ ” 

“ He is no player,” said the banker ; “ otherwise he 
would have divided his monej’ into three parts and 
given himself other chances.” 

The 3’oung man passed out, forgetting to ask for his 
hat ; but the old mastiff’ behind the rail, having noticed 
the bad condition of that article, gave it back to him 
without a word ; he returned the ticket mechanically 
and passed downstairs, whistling Di tanti palpiti w ith 
so feeble a breath that he himself scarce!}^ heard the 
delicious notes. 

Presently he found himself beneath the arcades of the 
Palais-Royal, going toward the rue Saint-Honore, where 
he took a turn to the Tuileries and crossed the gardens 
with hesitating step. He walked as though in the 


The Magic Skin, 


11 


middle of a desert, — elbowed by men whom he did not 
see ; hearing, amid the noises of the streets and popu- 
lace, but one sound, the call to death ; wrapt in a 
torpor of thought like that of criminals as the tumbril 
takes them from the Palais to the Greve, to the scaffold 
reeking with the blood poured out upon it since 1793 . 

There is something grand and awful, not to be ex- 
pressed, in suicide. The fall of multitudes of men in- 
volves no danger ; they are like children tumbling from 
too low a height to hurt themselves. But when a great 
man is overthrown he comes from on high, he has risen 
to the skies where he has seen some inaccessible para- 
dise. Implacable are the tempests which force him to 
seek peace at the muzzle of a pistol. How many a 
young soul of talent withers and dies in a garret for 
want of a friend, for want of a consoling woman ; in 
the midst of millions of beings, masses of men surfeited 
with gold and satiated with life ! Viewed thus, suicide 
takes on gigantic proportions. Between voluntary 
death and the fecund hopes which beckon youth in the 
great city, God alone knows what conceptions, what 
abandoned ideals, what despairs and stifled cries, what 
useless efforts, what aborted masterpieces, clash to- 
gether. Each suicide is a poem awful with melan- 
choly. Where will 3’ou find in the whole ocean of 
literature a book whose genius can equal this brief 
notice in the corner of some newspaper : — 

“ Yesterday,, at four o'clock,, a young woman flung 
herself into the Seine from the pont des Arts." 

Before this laconic Parisian item dramas and romances 
pale, even that old titlepage of the “ glorious King of 
Kaernavan imprisoned by his children,’’ — last frag- 


12 


The Magic Skin, 


ment of a lost book, the mere perusal of which brought 
tears to the e^’es of Sterne, who himself deserted his 
wife and children. 

The young man was assailed by such thoughts as 
these, which floated in fragments through his soul like 
shreds of tattered flags across a battle-fleld. If, for a 
moment, he laid down the burden of his mind and of 
his memory, and stopped to gaze at the flowers whose 
heads were gently swa3’ing in the breeze as it reached 
them through the shrubber}", soon a convulsion of the 
life which still fought against the crushing idea of sui- 
cide seized upon him ; he raised his e^’es to heaven and 
there the sombre clouds, the heav}’ atmosphere, the 
gusts of wind surcharged with sadness, once more coun- 
selled him to die. He walked on toward the pont Royal, 
recalling the last acts or fancies of his predecessors. A 
smile crossed his lips as he thought of Lord Castlereagh 
satisfying the humblest of wants before he cut his throat, 
and remembered how the academician Auger looked for 
his snufl*-box and took a pinch on his wa}^ to death. 
He was anal^’zing these oddities and questioning his 
own feelings when, as he pressed against the parapet of 
the bridge to make wa^" for a stout costermonger, the 
latter slightly soiled the sleeve of his coat, and he found 
himself carefully" shaking off the dust. Reaching the 
centre arch he stood still and looked darkl}^ at the 
water. 

“Bad weather to drown one’s self,” said an old 
woman in rags, with a laugh; “isn’t it dirty and 
cold, that Seine ? ” 

He answered with a natural smile; which showed the 
delirium of his courage ; but suddenly he shuddered as 


The Magic Skin. 


13 


he saw afar off on the pont des Tuileries the shed which 
bears the words in letters a foot high, “ Help for the 
Drowning.” Monsieur Dacheux appeared to him armed 
with philanthropy and those virtuous oars which crack 
the skulls of drowning persons, if by chance they appear 
above water ; he saw him appealing to a crowd, send- 
ing for a doctor, getting ready restoratives ; he read the 
mournful reports of journalists written between a jovial 
dinner and the smiles of a ballet-girl ; he heard the ring 
of the five-franc pieces which the prefect of the Seine 
would pay to the boatmen as the price of his body. Dead, 
he was worth fift}^ francs ; living, he was only a man of 
talent, without friends, or protectors, or straw to lie on, 
or a nook to hide in, — a social cipher, useless to the 
State, which took no note of him. Death in open day 
struck him as humiliating ; he resolved to die at night 
and bequeath an indistinguishable carcass to that social 
world which ignored the grandeur of his life. He 
therefore continued his way toward the quai Voltaire, 
assuming, unconsciously, the step of an idler seeking 
to kill time. As he went down the steps which end the 
sidewalk of the bridge at the angle of the qua}", his at- 
tention was caught by the rows of old books spread out 
for sale upon the parapet, and he came near bargain- 
ing for some of them. Then he smiled, put his hands 
philosophically into his pockets and was about to re- 
sume his nonchalant manner, which seemed like a mask 
of cold disdain, when to his amazement he heard a few 
coins rattle, with a sound that was positively weird, at 
the bottom of his trousers-pocket. A smile of hope 
brightened his face, slid from his lips to every feature, 
smoothed his brow, and made his eyes and his gloomy 


14 


The Magic Skin. 


cheeks glow with happiness. This sparkle of joy was 
like the fire which runs through vestiges of paper that 
are already consumed by the flames ; but the face, like 
the ashes, grew black once more as the 5’oung man 
rapidl}’ drew out his hand and saw in it three sous. 

“Ah! my good monsieur, la carita! la carita! 
Catarina ! a little sou to buy me bread ! ” 

A chimney-sweep, whose swollen face was black and 
his bod}" brown with soot and his clothing ragged, was 
holding out a dirty hand to clutch the man’s last sous. 

Two steps off a poor old Savoyard, sickly and suffer- 
ing and meanly clothed in knitted garments full of 
holes, called to him in a thick, hoarse voice: “Mon- 
sieur, give me what you will, and I will pray God for 
you.” But when the young man looked at him the old 
man was silenced and said no more, recognizing per- 
haps on that funereal face the signs of a wretchedness 
more bitter than his own. 

“ La carita ! la carita! ” 

The young man threw the coppers to the child and 
the old pauper, as he left the sidewalk and crossed 
toward the houses, for he could no longer endure the 
harrowing aspect of the river. 

“We will pray God for a long life to you,” cried the 
two beggars. 

As he paused before the window of a print-shop the 
man noticed a 5’oung woman getting out of a handsome 
equipage. He gazed with delight at the charming creat- 
ure, whose fair features were becomingly framed by the 
satin of an elegant bonnet. The slender waist and her 
pretty motions captivated him . Her dress caught slightly 
on the carriage-step, and enabled him to see a leg whose 


The Magic Skin. 


15 


fine outline was marked by a white and well-drawn stock- 
ing. The young woman entered the shop and asked the 
price of albums and looked at some lithographs, which 
she bought and paid for with gold pieces that glittered 
and rang upon the counter. The 3’oung man, standing 
in the doorway, apparently occupied by looking at the 
prints in the show-case, exchanged the most piercing 
glance that the eyes of man could cast against an in- 
different look bestowed on all alike by the beautiful un- 
known. The glance on his part meant a farewell 
to love, to Woman ; but it was not so understood ; it 
did not stir that frivolous female heart, nor make the 
charming creature blush, or even lower her eyes. 
What was it to her? — a little admiration, the homage 
of an eye which made her think to herself that evening, 
“ I looked m}^ best to-day.” The 3'oung man turned 
hastily to another pane and did not even glance round 
as the lady passed him to regain her carriage. The 
horses started ; that last image of elegance and luxury 
vanished just as he himself was about to vanish from 
existence. 

He walked sadly past the shop- windows, looking 
without interest at their samples of merchandise. When 
the shops came to an end he studied the Louvre in the 
same way, the Institute, the towers of Notre-Dame, 
those of the Palais, and the pont des Arts. These 
buildings seemed to wear a sad countenance beneath 
the leaden skies whose occasional streaks of brightness 
gave a menacing air to the great city, which, like a 
pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable changes from 
beauty to ugliness. Thus Nature herself conspired to 
plunge the doomed man into an agonizing ecstasy. A 


16 


The Magic Shin. 


prey to that malignant force whose decomposing action 
finds an agent in the fluid which circulates in our 
nerves, he felt his organism slowly and almost insen- 
sibly reaching the phenomena of fluidity. The tortures 
of his agony gave him motions that were like those of 
the sea; buildings and men appeared to him through 
a mist, swaying like the waves. He wanted to escape 
the sharp spasms of the soul which these reactions of 
his physical nature caused him, and he turned into the 
shop of an antiquary, meaning to find employment for 
his senses, and await the darkness in bargaining for 
works of art. It was, in truth, an effort to gain cour- 
age ; a prayer for a stimulant, such as criminals who 
doubt their nerve on the scaffold are wont to make. 
Yet the sense of his approaching death gave the 3’oung 
man, for a moment, the assurance of a duchess who has 
two lovers ; and he entered the shop with an easy air, 
and a smile on his lips as fixed as that of a drunkard, — 
in truth, was he not drunk with life, or rather with 
death? He soon fell back into his vertigo, however, 
and continued to see things under, strange colors, sway- 
ing with a slight motion, whose cause la}’ no doubt in 
the irregular circulation of his blood, which boiled at 
moments like the foam of a cascade and at others was 
still and dull as the tepid waters of a pool. 

He asked to be allowed to look through the estab- 
lishment and see if there were any curiosities that 
tempted him. A j’oung lad, with a pair of fresh, chubby 
cheeks, and reddish hair covered with a sealskin cap, 
consigned the care of the front shop to an old peasant 
woman, a species of female Caliban, who was on her 
knees cleaning a stove whose wondrous handiwork was 


The Magic Skin. 17 

due to the genius of Bernard Palissy ; then he turned 
to the stranger and said, with a careless air : — 

“ Certainly, monsieur, look about you. We keep 
onty the common things down here, but if 3*ou will 
take the trouble to go upstairs, I can show 3"Ou some 
fine mummies from Cairo, various inlaid potteries, and 
a few carved ebonies, — true Renaissance^ just come 
in, of exquisite beauty.” 

These empty commercial phrases, gabbled over b}’^ 
the shop-boy, were to the stranger, in his horrible situ- 
ation, like the pett^^ annoyances with which small minds 
assail a man of genius. Bearing his cross to the end, 
he seemed to listen to his conductor, answering him by 
gestures or monos^dlables ; but little by little he won 
the right to be silent and gave himself over to his last 
meditations, — which were terrible. He was a poet ; 
and his soul had now come, accidental!}", to a vast 
feeding-ground. Here he was to see in advance the 
bones of a score of worlds. 

At first sight, the rooms presented onl}" confused 
pictures, in which all works of nature or of art, human 
or divine, jostled each other. Crocodiles, monkeys, 
stuffed boas, grinned at the painted glass of the win- 
dows and seemed about to bite the busts, seize the 
lacquers, or spring at the lustres. A Sevres vase, on 
which Madame Jacotot had painted Napoleon, stood 
beside a Sphinx dedicated to Sesostris. The begin- 
nings of the world and the events of j-esterda}’ went 
arm-in-arm with grotesque cordiality. A jack-spit was 
l3dng on a monstrance, a republican sabre on a hackbut 
of the Middle Ages. Madame Du Barry, painted in 
pastel by Latour, with a star on her head, nude and 

3 


18 


The Magic Skin. 


floating on cloud, was concupiscently gazing at an 
Indian hookah, and trying to discover the utility of the 
spirals that wound toward her. Implements of death, 
daggers, curious pistols, secret weapons, were flung i 
pell-mell among the implements of life, porcelain soup- 
tureens, Dresden plates, diaphanous cups from China, 
antique salt-cellars, and feudal sweetmeat-boxes. An 
ivory vessel under full sail was floating on the back of 
a tortoise. A pneumatic instrument was putting out 
the e3"e of the Emperor Augustus, majesticall}’ indiffer- 
ent. Several portraits of French magistrates and Dutch 
burgomasters, as impassible now as the^^ once were in 
the flesh, looked down with cold and ghastly e^-es on 
this chaos of antiquities. All the kingdoms of the 
earth seemed to have contributed some fragments of 
their science, some specimen of their arts. The place 
was a kind of philosophical compost-heap, where no 
element was wanting, — neither the pipe of the savage, 
nor the green and gold slipper of the harem ; neither the 
Moorish yataghan, nor the Tartar idol. The tobacco- 
pouch of the soldier was there with the sacred vases ox 
the Church and the plumes of a dais. These wondrous 
scraps of many worlds were subjected to still further 
capricious changes by a number of fantastic reflections 
from the strange objects about them, and by sudden 
contrasts of light and shade. The ear fancied it 
caught the sound of strangled cries ; the mind seized 
the thread of interrupted dramas ; the eye perceived 
the glimmer of half-smothered lights. A la^^er of cling- 
ing dust had thrown a veil over all these objects, whose 
multiform angles and strange sinuosities produced a 
wondrously picturesque effect. 


The Magic Skin. 


19 


At first, these three rooms, teeming with civilization, 
with deities, religions, masterpieces, roj^alties, and 
debaucheries, with wisdom and with foil}', seemed to 
the young man like a mirror of many facets, each of 
which represented a world. After this confused and 
hazy first impression, he wished to select his enjo3’ment ; 
but by dint of looking, thinking, and dreaming, he was 
seized with an internal fever, due perhaps to the hunger 
which gnawed his entrails. The sight of so many na- 
tional and individual existences, whose proof la}^ in 
these tangible pledges which survived them, still further 
benumbed his senses. The wish that had sent him into 
the shop was granted ; he had left the life of reality 
and gone upward by degrees to an ideal world ; he had 
reached the enchanted palaces of Ecstasy where the 
universe appeared to him in broken visions, lighted by 
tongues of fire, — just as the life of the world to come 
had flamed before the e3'es of Saint John in Patmos. 

A multitude of mourning faces, lovely and terrible, 
darkling and luminous, distant and near, rose before 
him in masses, in myriads, in generations. Egypt, 
rigid, mysterious, rose from her sands and stood there, 
represented by a mummy in its black swathings ; or 
again, it was Pharaoh, burying the multitudes to build 
his dynasty a tomb ; it was Moses, the Israelites, and 
the desert. He beheld, as in a vision, the solemn world 
of antiquity. Here, on a twisted column, stood a mar- 
ble statue, fresh and smooth and sparkling with white- 
ness, which told him of the voluptuous myths of Greece 
and of Ionia. Ah ! who would not have smiled, as he 
did, to see upon the dark red ground that brown girl 
dancing with jocund step before Priapos in the fine 


20 


The Magic Shin. 


cla}’ of an Etruscan vase? There, opposite, a Latin 
queen caressed her chimera with effusion. The fashions 
of imperial Rome were here in all their luxury, — the 
bath, the couch, the jewel-case of some indolent and 
dreamy Julia awaiting her Tibullus. The head of 
Cicero, armed with the power of Arabian talismans, 
evoked memories of liberated Rome and laid open the 
pages of Livy. The young man gazed on the Senatus 
Populusque Bomanus : the consul, the lictors, the purple 
embroidered togas, the strifes of the Forum, an angered 
people, defiled slowly before him like the vaporous fig- 
ures of a dream. And then, above them all, towered 
Christian Rome. A painting caught his eye ; he saw 
the Virgin Mary in the midst of angels, on a golden 
cloud, eclipsing the glory of the sun and listening to 
the plaints of the sorrowful, on whom she — the regen- 
erated Eve — was smiling tenderl3\ But as he touched 
a mosaic made with the lavas of Etna and Vesuvius, 
his soul sprang away to Italy, to the glowing, tawny 
South ; he was present at the Borgia orgies ; he wan- 
dered in the Abruzzi ; he loved with an Italian love, 
and grew enamoured of those white faces with the 
black almond eyes. He shuddered at the thought of 
midnight interviews, cut short b^' the cold steel of a 
husband’s weapon, as his eye rested on a dagger of 
the Middle Ages, whose handle was wrought with the 
delicacy of lace- work and whose blade was rusty with 
what looked like blood. India and its religions lived 
again to Occidental ej^es in an idol, coifed with the 
pointed cap and four raised sides bearing the bells, and 
dressed in gold and silken stuffs. Near to this gro- 
tesque figure, a rug, pretty as the nautch-girl who once, 


The Magic Skin. 


21 


no doubt, had lain upon it, still gave forth its sandal- 
wood odors. A Chinese monster with inverted eyes, 
contorted mouth, and twisted limbs, revealed to the 
looker-on the soul of a people who, weary of monoto- 
nous beauty, have found ineffable pleasure in a wealth 
of ugliness. But here a salt-cellar from the hand of 
Benvenuto Cellini brought him back to the bosom of 
the Renaissance, — to the days when art and license 
flourished, when sovereigns took their pleasure at exe- 
cutions, when prelates Ij’ing in the arms of courtesans 
decreed chastity for the lower priesthood. He saw the 
conquests of Alexander on a cameo, the massacres of 
Pizarro in a matchlock arquebuse, the wars of a dis> 
orderly, raging, and cruel religion in the hollow head- 
piece of a helmet. Then, all at once, the smiling images 
of chivalry filled his brain, as they sprang forth from a 
superbl}" damascened piece of Milanese armor, highly 
polished, beneath whose visor the eyes of paladins 
seemed still to glow. 

This ocean of inventions, fashions, handicrafts, re- 
sults, and ruins, were to the stranger a poem without 
an end. Forms, colors, thoughts were resurrected, 
but nothing complete was offered to the soul. It de- 
volved upon the poet to finish the sketch of the great 
painter who had prepared this vast palette, where all 
the accidents of human life were flung in profusion and 
as if disdainfull}’. After thus compassing the world 
contemplating nations, eras, dynasties, the young man 
came back to individual existences. The life of na- 
tions was too overwhelming for man, the solitary ; he 
individualized himself once more, and looked for the 
details of human life. 


22 


The Magic Skin. 


There lay a waxen infant sleeping, saved from the 
collection of Ruysch ; the enchanting creature recalled 
to him the joys of his childhood. At the magic aspect 
of the waist-cloth of a Tahitian virgin, his fervid imag- 
ination showed him the simple life of nature, the chaste 
nakedness of true purity, the delights of indolence, — 
so natural to man, — a calm existence, young and 
dream}", beside a brook, beneath a plantain which be- 
stowed its luscious manna without the toils of culture. 
But in another moment he was a corsair, clothed with 
the terrible poetry of Lara, suddenly inspired by the 
opalescent colors of wondrous shells, excited by a 
glimpse of corals still smelling of the algae and the 
sea-wracks of Atlantic hurricanes. Admiring, further 
on, the delicate miniatures, the azure and gold ara- 
besques that enriched some precious missal, the toil 
of a lifetime, he forgot the tumults of ocean. Softly 
cradled in thoughts of peace, he turned anew to study 
and to science, desiring the unctuous life of monks 
exempt from griefs, exempt from pleasures, sleeping 
in cells, and gazing from their Gothic windows upon 
the meadows, the woods, the vineyards of their monas- 
tery. Before a Teniers he buckled on the knapsack of 
a soldier, or picked up the hod of a laborer ; he wished 
to wear the dirty smoky cap of a Fleming, to get drunk 
with beer, play cards in their company, and smile at 
some coarse peasant- woman of attractive stoutness. 
He shivered at the snow-storms of Mieris, and fought 
in the melee as he stood before a battlepiece by Salva- 
tor Rosa. He handled a tomahawk from Illinois, and 
felt the knife of the Cherokee as the savage took his 
ecalp. Marvelling at the sight of a Moorish rebec. 


The Magic Skin. 


23 


he gave it into the hands of a lady of the manor, lis- 
tened to the melodious ballad, and declared his love 
at even, beside the hooded fireplace, where her con- 
senting glance was lost in the twilight of the place 
and hour. He clutched at every joy, seized upon every 
sorrow, gathered to himself all the formulas of exist- 
ence as he thus cast himself and his feelings into these 
phantoms of a pictured and unreal nature, till at last 
the noise of his own footsteps resounded in his soul, 
like the distant echoes of another world, or as the 
hoarse murmurs of Paris reach the topmost towers of 
Notre-Dame. 

As the young man mounted the interior staircase 
which led to the rooms on the floor above, he no- 
ticed votive bucklers, panoplies, carved shrines, wooden 
images, either hanging to the walls or resting on every 
stair. Pursued by the strangest shapes, by marvellous 
creations which seemed to exist on the confines of life and 
death, he walked as one in a vision. Doubting his own 
existence, he seemed, like the objects about him, neither 
altogether dead nor altogether living. When he entered 
the upper rooms daylight was beginning to fade, but it 
seemed unneeded amid the dazzling glitter of gold and 
silver articles which were there heaped together. The 
costliest caprices of dead collectors, dying in garrets 
after possessing millions, were in this vast bazaar of 
human folly. A desk that had cost a hundred thou- 
sand francs, bought back for a thousand sous, lay beside 
a secret lock whose price would formerly have sufllced 
for a king’s ransom. Human genius was there in the 
pomp of its poverty, in all the glory of its gigantic 
pettiness. An ebony table, true idol of art, carved 


24 


The Magic Skin. 


from designs Jean Goujon, and costing many years 
of toil, had doubtless been bought at the price of fire- 
wood. Precious coffers, articles of furniture made by 
magic hands, were piled disdainfully one upon another. 

“You have millions here ! ” cried the young man, 
entering a room which terminated a long suite of apart- 
ments carved and gilded bj' artists of the last century. 

“ Say thousands of millions,’* answered the chubb}^ 
3’outh. “But this is nothing; come up to the third 
fioor, and 3’ou shall see ! ” 

The stranger followed his conductor and reached a 
fourth series of rooms, where there passed in succession 
before his wearied e3’es several pictures by Poussin, 
a noble statue b3^ Michael Angelo, some enchanting 
landscapes of Claude Lorrain, a Gerard Dow that was 
like a page of Sterne, Rembrandts, Murillos, and Velas- 
quez, sombre and darkly glowing, like a poem of Lord 
Byron ; also antique bas-reliefs, exquisite specimens of 
onyx and agate cups. A vase of Egyptian porph3T3’, 
of inestimable value, with circular carvings represent- 
ing the grotesque licentiousness of Roman obscenit3’, 
scarcely won a smile. The man was suffocating under 
the wrack of fifty vanished centuries ; he was sick with 
the thoughts of humanity, fainting under luxuiy and 
art, prostrated b3^ those strange shapes of the Renais- 
sance which, like monsters begotten beneath his feet 
b3’ evil genius, seemed to challenge him to endless 
fight. 

The soul in its caprices is like our modern chemistry 
which assigns creation to a gas ; it compounds poisons 
b3' the rapid concentration of its enjo3’ments, its forces, 
or its ideas. Many men have perished from the con- 


The Magic Skin. 


25 


vulsion caused by the sudden diffusion of some moral 
acid through their inward being. 

“ What does this box contain? ” asked the stranger, 
stopping before a large cabinet filled with the glories of 
human toil, originality, and wealth, and pointing to a 
square case made of mahogany, which was hanging 
from a nail by a silver chain. 

“ Ah! monsieur has the key to that,” said the stout 
lad, with an air of mystery. “ If you wish to see that 
portrait I will risk asking him.” 

“ Risk?” exclaimed the stranger. “ Is your master 
a prince ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the youth. 

They looked at each other for a moment. Then, in- 
terpreting the stranger’s silence to mean a wish, the 
apprentice left him alone in the gallery. 

Did you ever launch yourself into the vague immens- 
ity of space and time as you read the geological works 
of Cuvier? Carried away b}^ his genius, have you hov- 
ered above the fathomless ab3"ss of the past as though 
sustained by the hand of a magician ? Discovering, line 
upon line, layer upon layer, in the quarries of Mont- 
martre or the gneiss of the Urals, those animals whose 
fossilized remains belong to antediluvian civilizations, 
the soul is terrified as it perceives the thousand millions 
of 3"ears and of peoples which feeble human memory, 
even divine indestructible tradition has forgotten, yet 
whose dust survives, here on the surface of our earth, 
in the two feet of soil which give us bread and flowers. 
Is not Cuvier the greatest poet of our century? Lord 
Byron reproduces moral throes in verse, but our immor- 
tal naturalist has reconstructed worlds from a whiteneci 


26 


The Magic Skin. 


bone; rebuilt, like Cadmus, cities from a tooth; re- 
peopled, from an atom of coal, a thousand forests with 
the m3’steries of zoology ; and recalled to human knowl- 
edge races of giants from the foot of a mastodon. These 
forms arise and tower up and people regions that are in 
harmony with their colossal statures. Cuvier is a poet by 
mere numbers. He stirs the void with no artificial!}^ 
magic utterance ; he scoops out a fragment of gypsum, 
discovers a print-mark and cries out “ Behold ! ” — and 
lo, the trees are animalized, death becomes life, the world 
unfolds. After dynasties innumerable of gigantic creat- 
ures, after races of fishes and kingdoms of molluscs, 
ihe human kind appears, degenerate product of a gran- 
diose t3"pe broken perhaps b}" the Creator. Warmed 
to life by his retrospective glance, these puny men, 
born 3"esterda3’, have o’erleapt chaos and called the 
past of the universe into shape, as it were a retrospective 
Apocal3’pse, with endless h3"mns of praise. In presence 
of this awe-inspiring resurrection due to the voice of 
one man, the fragment that is conceded to us of this 
infinite without a name, common to all spheres and 
which we call Time, — the fragment, the atom, in which 
we have only a life-interest, — is pitiable. We ask our- 
selves, crushed as we are. beneath these ruined worlds, 
of what use are all our glories, hates, and loves ; and 
whether, to become an imperceptible speck in the future, 
the pains of life need be endured. Uprooted from the 
present we are as if dead — until our valet opens the 
door and comes up to us to say, “ Madame la comtesse 
replies that she expects monsieur.” 

The marvels thus spread before the eyes of the young 
man, revealing the universe itself, filled his soul with a 


The Magic Skin. 


27 


depression comparable only to that of the philosopher 
seeking a scientific view of mysterious creations ; he 
longed more than ever to die, and threw himself into a 
curule chair, suffering his e3*es to rove amid the phan- 
toms of this panorama of the past. The pictures 
glowed, the virgins smiled upon him, the statues wore 
the deceptive hues of life. In the shadows of the room 
and of the twilight these works of ages, put in motion 
bv’ the feverish ferment of his shattered brain, danced 
and whirled about him ; each fantastic image grinned 
upon him, the eyelids of the personages in the pictures 
drooped as though to rest their eyes. Each weird shape 
shivered, moved, detached itself from its surroundings, 
gravel^' or frivolously, with grace or clumsiness, accord- 
ing to its nature, its habits, or its composition. It was 
a witches* sabbath worthy of the Brocken and Doctor 
Faust. 

But these optical phenomena, superinduced hy fatigue, 
by the tension of the ocular muscles, or by the whimsi- 
cal suggestions of the twilight, could not frighten the 
3'Oung man. The terrors of life were powerless over a 
soul that was now familiar with the terrors of death. 
He even lent himself to a sort of ironical collusion with 
the fantasticalities of this moral galvanism, whose freaks 
coupled themselves with the last thoughts which the 
sense of existence still forced upon him. Silence 
reigned so stilly about him that soon he wandered into a 
gentle rever^r, whose impressions, slowty darkening, fol- 
lowed, shadow by shadow, and as if by magic, the slow 
decline of the light of day. A last gleam coming from 
the sky sent a ruddy shaft against the inroad of the 
night ; he raised his head and saw a skeleton, swinging 


28 


The Magic Skin, 


its skull pensively from left to right as though to tell 
him : — “ The dead do not yet want thee.” Passing 
his hand across his brow to prevent sleep, he dis- 
tinctly felt a waft of chilly air produced some hairj^ 
substance which swept past his cheek, and he shud- 
dered. The casement creaked ; he fancied that the 
cold caress, foretelling the mysteries of the grave, came 
from a bat. For a moment longer, the dim reflections 
of the sunken sun allowed him still to see the phantoms 
by which he was surrounded ; then the dead world of 
things died at once into the darkness. Night, and the 
hour of death came swiftly. After that moment there 
was a lapse of time during which he had no clear per- 
ception of terrestrial things, — either because he was 
wrapped in rever}", or because he yielded to the drows- 
iness produced by fatigue and by the multitude of 
thoughts that rent his heart. Suddenly he fancied he 
heard himself called by an awful voice, and he shud- 
dered like a man in a feverish nightmare when he fan- 
cies he is flung at a bound to the depths of some abyss. 
He closed his eyes, but the rays of a strong light 
dazzled them ; then he opened them and saw, in the 
depths of the shadows, a shining red disk, in the centre 
of which an old man stood erect, turning the rays of a 
lamp full upon him. He had heard nothing, neither the 
step, nor the movement, nor the voice of this figure. 
The apparition seemed magical. Brave men roused 
from sleep might have trembled before this personage 
who seemed to have risen from a neighboring sarcopha- 
gus. A singular expression of 3'outh, which animated 
the motionless eyes of the seeming phantom, prevented 
the young man from thinking the figure supernatural. 


The Magic Skin. 


29 


Still, during the short moment that intervened between 
his somnambulic life and his return to actual existence, 
he was held by the philosophic doubt which Descartes 
recommends, and then in spite of himself, he fell under 
the influence of those inexplicable hallucinations whose 
m3’steries our pride condemns and our impotent science 
strives in vain to anal3’ze. 

Imagine a little, lean, and shrunken old man, wearing 
a black velvet robe, fastened round his loins with a 
heavy silken cord. A skull-cap, also of black velvet, 
fitted the head so as to closely frame the forehead, and 
yet allow the long, white hair to fall on either side his 
face. The robe was wrapped around the bod3' like a 
winding-sheet, and allowed no sign of it to appear 
below the pale and naiTow face. Without the fleshless 
arm, which resembled a stick on which the velvet hung, 
and which the old man held on high to throw the full 
light of the lamp upon the stranger, the face might have 
seemed suspended in mid-air. A gra3' beard, trimmed 
to a point, hid the chin of this weird being, and gave 
him the appearance of those Jewish heads which artists 
use as t3’pes of Moses. The old man's lips were so 
thin and colorless that some attention was needed to 
trace the line of the mouth in that blanched visage. 
His broad and furrowed brow, his wan cheeks, and the 
implacable sternness of his small, green eyes, bare of 
lashes and of eyebrows, might have led the stranger to 
suppose that Gerard Dow’s Mone3*-changer had stepped 
from its frame. The craftiness of an inquisitor, be- 
tra3’ed b3^ the sinuous lines of the wrinkles, and the 
circular creases on the forehead, showed the depths of 
his knowledge of the things of life. It was impossible 


30 


The Magic Skin, 


to deceive him, for he seemed to have the gift of read- 
ing the inmost thoughts of the most secluded heart. 
The ethics of all the nations of the globe, and the wis- 
dom of them, were gathered into that white face, just 
as the productions of the universe were accumulated 
in his dusty galleries. Upon it you might read the 
lucid calm of a god whose eye sees all, or the proud 
strength of a man who has seen it. A painter could 
have made of these two expressions and of this one 
man, by two strokes of his brush, a noble image of the 
Eternal Father, or the scoffing masque of a Mephistoph- 
eles ; on the brow he would have found omnipotence, 
on the lips the vicious jest. The man must have killed 
all earthly joys within him, while he ground the anguish 
of human life with the pestle of his power. The 3'oung 
stranger, though himself about to die, shuddered at a 
fancy that this ancient genie inhabited some other 
sphere, where he lived alone, without joy, because with- 
out illusion, and without sorrows, for he knew no joy. 
The old man stood erect, motionless, moveless as a star 
in the middle of a lustrous sky. His green eyes, full of 
calm maliciousness, seemed to light the moral world as 
the lamp which he held aloft illuminated the mysterious 
gallery. 

Such was the strange sight which met the joung 
man’s eyes when he opened them after swaying, half- 
unconscious, between thoughts of death and the fan- 
tastic images of worlds about him. If for a moment he 
was bewildered, if he allowed himself to believe, like a 
child, in some old nurse’s tale of his infancy’, it is ex- 
plainable by the irritation of his nerves, and by the 
strange drama whose panoramic scenes had given him 


The Magic Skin, 


31 


some of the horrible delights contained in opium. This 
vision was taking place in Paris, on the qiiai Voltaire, 
in the nineteenth century, a time and place where 
magic was surely impossible. The 3'oung man, living 
near to the house in which the apostle of French unbe- 
lief had died, a disciple of Gay-Lussac and of Arago, 
and contemptuous of the juggling tricks of the da}^ was 
simply overcome b^^ a momentary superstition, a poetic 
fascination, to which men often lend themselves, as 
much to flee from agonizing truths as to tempt the 
power of God. He trembled, therefore, before that 
light and that old man, filled b^" an inexplicable pre- 
sentiment of some strange power ; the emotion was the 
same we have all experienced before Napoleon, or in 
presence of some brilliant man of genius clothed with 
fame. 

“Monsieur wishes to see the portrait of Jesus Christ, 
painted b3r Raphael ? ” asked the old man courteously^ 
in a voice whose clear, sharp resonance had a metallic 
ring. 

He placed the lamp upon the shaft of a broken col- 
umn, in a manner to throw its whole light upon the 
wooden box. 

At the sacred names of Christ and Raphael, a move- 
ment of curiosity escaped the young man, which was 
no doubt expected by the antiquary, who now touched 
a spring. Suddenly the mahogany panel slid noise- 
lessly through its groove, and disclosed the picture to 
the admiration of its beholder. Seeing that immortal 
creation, he forgot the weird sights of the gallery and the 
visions of his sleep ; he became once more a man ; he 
recognized a frllow-man, a being of flesh and blood, in 


32 


The Magic Shin. 


his companion, a living man, and in no way phantas- 
magorical ; he felt himself in the world of real things. 
The tender solicitude, the sweet serenity of the divine 
face at once acted upon him. Some essence wafted 
from heaven relaxed the infernal tortures which wrung 
him even to the marrow of his bones. The head of the 
Saviour of men seemed to detach itself from the dark- 
ness of the back-ground ; a halo of brilliant rays shone 
vividly around the golden hair from which their bril- 
liance issued ; beneath the brow, beneath the flesh 
there was a meaning, an eloquent, convincing power, 
which escaped in penetrating effluence from every feat* 
ure. Those coral lips seemed to have just uttered the 
words of life, and the spectator listened for the sacred 
echo in the airs ; he prayed the silence to give back 
their meaning, he listened for it in the future, he heard 
it in the teachings of the past. The gospel was there 
in the calm kindness of those eyes, to which the 
troubled soul might fly for refuge. The full meaning 
of the catholic religion could be read in the gentle, 
all-comprehending smile which seemed to express the 
precept in which alone is the true faith summed up : 
“ Love one another.” The picture inspired prayer, 
counselled forgiveness, stifled self, awakened everv dor- 
mant virtue. Raphael’s divine work, sharing the privi- 
leges of music, cast the spectator beneath the imperious 
charm of memory, and its triumph became complete ; 
Ihe painter was forgotten. The illusions of light were 
on the marvellous picture ; sometimes the head seemed 
to move at a far distance, in the midst of vapor. 

“I have covered that canvas with gold,” said the 
antiquary, coldly. 


The Magic Skin. 


33 


“ The die is cast, — it must be death ! ” cried the 
3’oung man, coming out of a revery whose final thought 
had brought him back to his cruel destinj^ and forced him, 
step by step, from a last hope to which he had clung. 

“ Ha, I was right to doubt j’ou ! ” exclaimed the old 
man, seizing the stranger’s wrists and holding them as 
if in a vice. 

The young man smiled sadl}^ at this distrust and said 
in a gentle voice: “Fear nothing, monsieur; I spoke 
of my death, not yours. Why should I not acknowledge 
a harmless deception ? ” he added, noticing the old man’s 
anxiety. “ While waiting for nightfall, that I might 
drown m3’self in the darkness without notice, I came 
here to see your treasures. You cannot begrudge this 
last pleasure to a man of science and poetry ? ” 

The old man examined the gloom}^ face of his pre- 
tended customer with a sagacious e^^e as he listened to 
him. Either he was reassured by the tones of that 
sad voice, or he read on the pallid features the awful 
destiny which had lately made even gamblers shudder, 
for he loosened his grasp ; then, with lingering suspicion, 
he stretched his arm carelessly" toward a table, as if to 
rest upon it, saying, as he picked up a stiletto, — 

“Are you a supernumerary" at the Treasury, without 
perquisites ? ” 

The y"oung man could not refrain from smiling as he 
made a negative gesture. 

“ Has your father reproached y"Ou for entering the 
world ; or are you yourself dishonored ? ” 

“ To live would dishonor me.” 

“Have they hissed your play at the Funambules? 
Are you forced to write farces to pay for your mistress’s 
3 


34 


The Magic Skin. 


funeral ? Perhaps you have got the gold disease ; or, 
after all, you may only be trying to escape ennui? In 
tihort, what weakness is it that bids you die ? ” 

“ The cause of my death is not to be found among 
the common reasons that lead men to suicide. To 
spare myself the revelation of my untold sufferings — 
which are indeed beyond the power of human language 
to express — I will tell j’ou once for all that I am in 
the deepest, the keenest, the most ignoble poverty. 
And,” he added, in a voice whose savage pride gave the 
lie to his preceding words, “ I ask for neither succor 
nor consolation.” 

“ Eh ! eh ! ” These two syllables, which the old man 
uttered like the cry of a hawk, were at first his only an- 
swer; then he added: “Without obliging you to beg 
of me, without causing you to blush, without giving 3’ou 
a centime of France, nor a para of the Levant, a tarant 
of Sicily, a kreuzer of Germany, a kopeck of Russia, 
a farthing of Scotland, nor a single one of those sesterces 
and oboli of ancient times, nor a piastre of the new ; 
without offering you so much as a scrap of gold, silver, 
copper, paper, or value of any kind, I will make 3’ou 
richer than monarchs, more powerful, more respected 
than any constitutional king can ever be.” 

The 3’oung man thought him in his dotage and re- 
mained silent, torpid, not venturing to speak. 

“Turn round,” said the old man, suddenly' seizing 
his lamp to throw the light full upon the wall that 
was opposite to the picture, “and behold that Magic 
Skin ! ” 

The young man rose abruptly, and showed some sur- 
prise when he saw hanging to the wall above the seat 


The Magic Skin. 


35 


on which he had been sitting, a piece of shagreen, the 
dimensions of which did not exceed a fox^s skin ; and 
yet b}" some inexplicable phenomenon, this skin pro- 
jected so vivid a light into the gloom of the gallery that 
it seemed almost like a miniature comet. The young 
sceptic went up to the pretended talisman which was to 
save him from the evils of existence, mentally scoffing at 
it. Nevertheless, moved by a very natural curiositj^, he 
leaned over to examine the Skin on all sides, and soon 
discovered a natural cause for its singular luminosity. 
The black grains of the leather were so highly polished 
and burnished, its curious stripes were so clearly de- 
fined that, like the manj^ facets on a piece of granite, 
the granulated roughness of this oriental leather pre- 
sented a thousand little surfaces which vividly reflected 
light. He explained the phenomenon mathematically to 
the old man, who merely smiled maliciously. That smile 
of calm superiorit}" made the younger man of science 
suspect that he was the dupe of some trickery. Deter- 
mined not to carrj" another enigma to the grave, he 
turned the Skin quickly, like a child eager to learn the 
secrets of his new to.y. 

“ Ha ! ” he cried, “ here is an impression of what the 
orientals called Solomon’s seal.” 

“ You recognize it?” said the antiquar}’, whose nos- 
trils emitted two or three puffs of air that expressed more 
than the most vehement language. 

“ Is there a man on earth so foolish as to believe that 
myth?” cried the 3"oung man, piqued at this silent 
laughter, so full of bitter derision. “ Do you not 
know,” he added, “ that the superstitious East has 
consecrated the mystic form and the lying characters of 


36 


The Magic Skin, 


this emblem of fabulous power? You need not tax me 
with credulity because I recognize it as I might a 
sphinx or a griffin, whose existence is in a manner 
mythologically admitted.” 

“ Since you are an orientalist,” said the old man, 
“ perhaps you can read this sentence.’^ 

He brought the lamp close to the talisman, which the 
young man was holding with the reverse side toward 
him, and pointed out certain strange characters em- 
bedded in the cellular tissue of the wonderful Skin, as 
though they had been a part of the animal it had once 
covered. 

I admit,” said the young man, “ that I cannot 
imagine b}^ what process those letters have been so 
deeply engraved on the skin of a wild ass.” 

Then, turning eagerly to the shelves covered with 
curiosities, his eyes appeared to seek for something. 

“ What is it you want? ” said the old man. 

“Some instrument to cut the skin, so as to see 
whether those letters are stamped, or inlaid.” 

The old man gave him the stiletto which he still 
held, and the stranger began to make an incision into 
the skin at the part where the letters appeared. After 
lifting a small portion of the leather the letters re- 
appeared below, as neatly and sharply as on the 
surface. 

“ The industries of the East have secrets,” he said, 
looking at the oriental sentence with some uneasiness, 
“ which are peculiarly their own.” 

“ Yes,” answered the old man, “ it is better to put the 
responsibility on man than on God.” 

The mysterious words were arranged as follows : — 


The Magic Skin, 


37 



tjUlU . 


ciCJ^aJIII 

■"j 


A 


IF THOU POSSESSEDST ME, THOU WOULDST POSSESS ALI 
BUT THY LIFE WOULD BE MY POSSESSION. 

GOD SO WILLS IT. 

WISH, AND THOU SHALT OBTAIN THY WISHES. 
BUT MEASURE THY WISHES BY THY LIFE. 

IT IS HERE. 

AT EVERY WISH OF THINE I SHRINK LIKE THY DAYS^ 
DOST THOU DESIRE ME? TAKE ME. 

GOD WILL GRANT THY WISHES. 


SO BE ITr 


38 


The Magic Skin, 


“Ha! you read Arabic?” said the antiquary. 
“ Perhaps you have crossed the deserts and seen 
Mecca ? ” 

“No, monsieur,” said the young man, fingering the 
symbolic Skin with much curiosit}^, and finding it almost 
as inflexible as a sheet of metal. 

The old man replaced the lamp on the broken column , 
glancing at his companion with a cold irony that seemed 
to say, “ He thinks no more about dying.” 

“ Is it a jest, or is it a mystery? ” asked the young 
man. 

The antiquary shook his head and answered gravely : 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell you. I have offered the terrible power 
bestowed by this talisman to men gifted with more 
vigor than you seem to possess, but though they scofled 
at the problematical influence it threatened to have over 
their future destiny, not one was willing to risk binding 
himself to the fatal compact proposed by the m3'Steri- 
ous power, — whatever that may be. I agree with 
them ; I have abstained from it myself, and — ” 

“ Have you never even tried its power?” interrupted 
the 3"Oung man. 

“Tried it!” exclaimed the antiquary. “If you 
were at the top of the column of the place Vendome 
would ^'ou try the experiment of throwing j’ourself into 
the air? Can life stand still? Can 3^ou take half of 
death and not the other half? Before 3’ou came into 
my galleries you had resolved to kill yourself, and now, 
all in a moment, a mj^stery takes 3"Our thoughts and 
diverts you from dying. Child ! every day of 3^our life 
offers ^’ou an enigma more interesting than this. Listen 
to me. I have seen the licentious court of the regent. 


The Magic Skin* 


39 


I was then, as you are, in poverty ; I begged my bread ; 
nevertheless I have attained the age of one hundred 
and two years, and I am a millionnaire. Misfortunes 
gave me wealth ; ignorance taught me. I will reveal 
to you, in a few words, a great mystery of human life. 
Man exhausts himself by two instinctive acts, which 
dry up the sources of his existence. Two verbs express 
all forms in which these causes of death appear; 
namely. Will and Action. Between those terms and 
human performance there is another formula, the per- 
quisite of wise men, and to it I owe m}^ longevity. 
Will inflames us, Action destroys us ; but Knowledge 
leaves our weak organism in perennial calm. There- 
fore desire, or volition, is dead within me, killed by 
thought; movement, or power, is determined by the 
natural play of my organs. In a word, I have placed 
my life, not in the heart that can be broken, not in 
the senses which can be dulled, but in the brain that 
never fails and survives all. No excess in anything 
has worn down my soul, nor yet my body. Neverthe- 
less, I have seen the whole world. My feet have 
trod the highest mountains of Asia and America, I 
know all human languages, I have lived under every 
form of government. I have lent my money to a 
Chinaman taking the body of his father as security ; I 
have slept in the tent of an Arab on the faith of his 
word ; I have signed contracts in every European capi- 
tal ; I have fearlessly left my gold in the wigwam of 
a savage ; yes, I have obtained all things because — 
I have despised all. My sole ambition has been to 
see. To see is to know. Young man, to know is to 
enjoy intuitively, — to discover the very substance of the 


40 


The Magic Skin, 


thing done, and to grasp its very essencvi. What is 
there, after all, in a material possession? An idea. 
Conceive therefore of the glorious life of a man who, 
imprinting all realities upon his thought, transports 
into his soul the springs of happiness, and draws 
thence a thousand ideal pleasures stripped of their 
earthly rags. Thought is the key to every treasure ; it 
bestows the miser’s joy without his cares. I have 
soared above the world and looked down upon it ; the 
pleasures I have had have ever been intellectual. My 
excesses were those of contemplation in many lands, 
of peoples, seas, forests, mountains. I have seen 
all, — but calmly, without fatigue ; I have wished for 
nothing ; I have waited for all. I have walked to and 
fro upon this earth as though it were the garden of a 
house that belonged to me. What men call griefs, 
loves, ambitions, disappointments, sadness, are to me 
ideas which I use in revery ; instead of feeling them, I 
express them, I explain them ; instead of allowing them 
to blast my life, I dramatize them, I develope them ; 
they amuse me as romances, which I read by an inward 
sight. Having never taxed my physical organs, my 
health is still robust. My soul inherits the vigor I have 
not wasted ; this head of mine is better filled than even 
my own galleries. There,” he said, striking his fore- 
head “ there are millions. I pass delightful days look- 
ing intelligently back into the past; I evoke whole 
regions, landscapes, sights of ocean, forms historically 
sublime. I have my imaginary harem, where I possess 
women I have never had. I review your wars, your 
revolutions, and I judge them. Ah ! who would prefer 
to this the feverish, flimsy admiration for a little flesh 


The Magic Skin, 


41 


more or less colored, for forms more or less shapely ? 
who would prefer the catastrophes of their thwarted 
will to the glorious faculty of making the whole world 
present within us, to the vast pleasures of movement 
untrammelled by the bounds of space or time, to the 
happiness of seeing all things, comprehending all things, 
and reaching out beyond this sphere to question other 
worlds, to hear God? Here,” he said in a startling 
voice, pointing to the Magic Skin, “ are the will and the 
action united ; here are your social ideas, your intemper- 
ate desires, your joj^s that kill, your sufferings that make 
life too vivid, — for it may be that pain is only violent 
pleasure : who shall determine the point at which pleas- 
ure becomes an evil, and where evil is still a joy ? The 
strongest lights of the ideal world are blissful to the eye, 
but the softest shadows of material existence wound it. 
The word Wisdom is synonj^mous with knowledge, and 
what is folly if not the excesses of Desire or Will?” 

“ Yes, but I choose to live in such excesses,” cried 
the 3^oung man, snatching the Magic Skin. 

“Young man, beware !” exclaimed the old antiquary, 
with incredible energy. 

“ I gave my life to studj^ and to thought, and the^’’ 
have not so much as fed me,” replied the stranger. “ I 
will not be duped by a homily worthy of Swedenborg, 
nor by that Eastern talisman, nor bj^ j’our charitable 
efforts, monsieur, to keep me in a world where m3" ex- 
istence is henceforth impossible. Come, let us see,” 
he added, holding the mystic object with convulsive 
grasp, and looking at the old man. “ I will to have a 
dinner, royally splendid, a banquet worthy of an age 
which has, they tell us, reached perfection. I will that 


42 


The Magic Shin, 


my fellow-guests be young and witty and wise without 
prejudices, — joyous to excess ! The wines shall flow 
and sparkle and have strength to intoxicate us for three 
days. The nights shall be adorned with ardent women. 
I will that frenzied, uproarious Excess bear us in his 
four-horse chariot beyond the conflnes of earth and 
cast us upon the unknown shores, that our souls may 
mount to heaven or plunge into the mud, — let them rise 
or fall, I care not which. I command that malefic power 
to blend me all joys into one joy. Yes, I have need to 
embrace the pleasures of earth and heaven in one close 
clasp before I die. I will to have the saturnalia of an- 
tiquity after we have drunken ; songs to awake the 
dead; triple kisses, kisses that have no end, whose 
clamor shall sound through Paris like the crackling 
of flames, waking husbands and wives and inspiring 
them with the ardor of their youth, even though thej 
be octogenarians — ” 

A burst of laughter from the mouth of the old man 
resounded in the ears of the young madman like the 
roarings of hell, and silenced him so despotically that 
he held his peace. 

“ Do you think,” said the antiquarj^, “that my floors 
are about to open and bring up a table sumptuously 
served, followed by guests from another world? No, 
no, rash youth. You have signed the compact ; all is 
accomplished. You have only to wish, and j our wishes 
will be faithfully fulfilled, but — at the cost of your life. 
The circle of your days, represented by this Skin, will 
contract and shrink according to the strength and num- 
ber of your wishes, from the least to the greatest. The 
Brahman from whom I obtained this talisman explained 


The Magic Skin, 


43 


to me that it would work a m5’stic correspondence 
between the desires and the destiny of its possessor. 
Your first desire is commonplace ; I could easily realize 
it ; but I leave that function to the events of your new 
existence. After all, you wished to die, did you not? 
Well, your suicide is only postponed.” 

The stranger, surprised and irritated to feel himself 
the butt of the singular old man, whose half-philan- 
thropic purpose seemed clearly shown in this last 
sarcasm, cried out angrily : — 

“ I shall see for myself, monsieur, if my luck changes 
during the time it takes me to reach the bridge. If I 
find that you have not jested at the expense of an 
unhappy man, I shall wish, to avenge myself for the 
fatal service you have done me, that you fall madly in 
love with a ballet-girl. You will then know the joys 
of a debauch, and perhaps 3"ou will become prodigal of 
all those means of happiness which 3’ou have so philo- 
sophically acquired.” 

He left the gallery without hearing, the heavy sigh 
that came from the old man, crossed the suites of 
rooms and ran down the stairs, followed by the stout 
shop-bo3^, who vainly tried to light him as he fied like a 
robber taken in the act. Blinded b}^ a species of de- 
lirium, he did not even observe the extraordinary flex- 
ibilit}’ of the Skin, which had now become as supple as 
a glove, and allowed his frenzied fingers to roll it up 
and put it, almost mechanicall}’, into the pocket of his 
coat. As he rushed from the door of the shop toward 
the roadway, he ran violently against three young men 
who were passing along the qua^s arm in arm. 


44 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Brute ! ” 

“ Idiot ! ” 

Such were the gracious amenities which they inter 
changed. 

Hey ! it is Raphael ! ” 

“We have hunted everywhere for you.” 

“What! is it you?” 

These friendly phrases succeeded the insults as soon 
as the light of a street-lamp, swinging in the wind, 
struck the surprised faces of the group. 

“ My dear fellow,” said the young man whom 
Raphael in his rapid flight had almost knocked down, 
“ 3^ou must come with us.” 

“ Wh}^? what has happened?” 

“ Come on, and I will tell 3^ou as we go along.” 

Whether he would or no, Raphael was surrounded by 
a merry band of friends, who linked arms with him, 
and dragged him toward the pont des Arts. 

“We have been chasing you for the last week,” said 
the first spokesman. “ At your highly respectable 
hotel Saint-Quentin, — whose immovable sign, I must 
parenthetically observe, keeps its alternate red and 
black letters as in the days of Jean- Jacques Rousseau, — 
the old portress told us 3’ou had gone into the countr}’ ; 
and yet I ’m certain we did not look like creditors or 
sheriff’s oflScers. However, no matter. Rastignac had 
seen j'ou the night before at the Bouffons ; so we took 
courage, and made it a point of honor to discover 
whether you were perching on the trees of the Champs- 
6lysees, or sleeping for two sous a night in one of 
those philanthropic dens where beggars are put to bed 
on taut ropes, or whether your bivouac had been set up, 


The Magic Skin, 


45 


with better luck, in a boudoir. But we could n’t find you 
anywhere, — neither on the police records at Sainte- 
Pelagie nor those of La Force. Ministries, theatres, 
convents, cafes, libraries, juries, newspaper oflSces, 
restaurants, greenrooms, — in short, every possible 
hole and corner of Paris, good and bad, — have been 
explored ; we were bewailing the loss of a man gifted 
with genius enough to compel us to look for him either 
in a palace or a prison. We talked of getting j'ou can- 
onized as a July hero, and, on my word of honor, we 
did regret you.” 

At this instant, Raphael, surrounded b}" his friends, 
was crossing the pont des Arts, where, without listen- 
ing to what was being said to him, he looked at the 
Seine whose murmuring waters refiected the lights of 
Paris. Above that stream, at the very spot where he 
was lately about to plunge into it, the prediction of the 
old man was accomplished, the hour of his death was 
suddenly postponed. 

“ Yes, we did truly regret you,” said his friend, still 
pursuing that theme. ‘ ‘ And we wanted you for an affair, 
an alliance, in which we counted on you in your character 
of superior man ; by that I mean a man who knows how 
to put himself above everything. Now listen, my dear 
fellow. The shuffling and the constitutional juggler}’’ 
that goes on in the royal conjuring-box is worse than 
ever. The infamous Monarchy that was overthrown by 
popular heroism was like a woman of bad character, 
but at least you could laugh and banquet with her; 
whereas the Nation is a cross-grained virtuous wife, 
whose frigid embraces we have got to put up with 
whether we like it or no. Now power, as you very 


46 


The Magic Skin. 


well know, has betaken itself from the Tuileries into 
journalism, — just as the Budget changed quarters by 
passing from the faubourg Saint-Germain to the Chaus- 
see-d’Antin. But here ’s something which perhaps you 
don’t know. The government — that’s to say, the 
aristocracy of bankers and lawyers who make the 
nation, just as, in the old days, the priests made the 
monarchy — feels the necessity of mystif3'ing the good 
people of France with new words and old ideas, in imi- 
tation of the philosophers of all schools, and the strong 
minds of all epochs. The question is now to inculcate 
a royalist-national public opinion, hy proving that we 
are happier and better for paying twelve hundred mil- 
lions, thirty-three centimes, to the nation, represented 
b}^ Messrs. So-and-so, rather than eleven hundred 
millions, nine centimes, to a king who said ‘ I ’ instead of 
‘We.’ To sum it all up in one word, a newspaper, armed 
with two or three hundred thousand francs, is about to 
be started, with the idea of setting up an opposition 
which shall content the discontented, and yet do no 
harm to the national government of the citizen-king. 
Now, considering that we make as much fun of liberty 
as we do of despotism, and quite as much of religion as 
of scepticism, and that to us countiy is the capital, 
where ideas can be exchanged and sold at so much a 
line, where succulent dinners and theatre-stalls are to 
be had nightlj^ where chartered libertinage abounds, and 
suppers end only on the morrow, and where love goes for 
so much an hour, like the cabs ; and considering also that 
Paris will always be the most adorable of all countries, 
the country of jo}^ and libert}’ and wit, of pretty women 
and scamps and good wine, and where, moreover, the 


The Magic Skin. 


47 


stick of power can never come down too heavily because 
we are close to those who wield it, — it has been re- 
solved that We, true votaries of the god Mephistopheles, 
undertake to plaster over the public mind, patch up the 
actors, nail some new planks on the government hut, 
physic the doctrinaires, warm up the old Republicans, re- 
gild the Bonapartists, and revictual the centre, provided 
we are allowed to laugh in petto at kings and peoples, 
and are not forced to hold the same opinions morning 
and evening, but are free to lead a merry life k la Pan- 
urge, or more orientali^ couched on delectable cushions. 
We intend that you shall take the reins of this burlesque 
and macaronic empire, and therefore we are now con- 
ducting you to a dinner given by the founder of the 
said newspaper, a retired banker, who, not knowing 
what to do with his gold, is willing to exchange it for 
our genius. You ’ll be welcomed as a brother. We ’ll 
hail you king of the modern Fronde, prince of those 
searching minds that nothing terrifies, whose perspi- 
cacity discovers the intentions of Austria, England, or 
Russia before Russia, England, and Austria have any 
intentions. Yes, we ’ll proclaim j’ou sovereign of the 
intellectual forces which have furnished the world with 
Mirabeaus and Talleyrands and Pitts and Metternichs, 
in short, all those bold Crispins who have gambled away 
the destinies of an empire among each other, just as 
boors stake their kirschen-wasser at dominos. We 
have already held 3'OU up as the most intrepid knight 
that ever fearlesslj^ encountered Excess, — that splendid 
monster with whom all untrammelled thinkers insist 
on struggling ; we have even declared that it has not 
3"et vanquished 3"Ou. I trust 3"ou will justify our 


48 


The Magic Skin* 


praises. Taillefer, the amphitryon, promises to sur- 
pass in this banquet the narrow-minded saturnalias 
of our petty modern Luculluses. He is rich enough 
to put grandeur into little things, and grace and ele- 
gance into vice — Do you hear me, Raphael?’^ de- 
manded the orator, suddenly interrupting himself. 

“ Yes,” replied the young man, who was less amazed 
at the accomplishment of his wishes, than surprised by 
the natural manner in which a chain of circumstances 
had brought it about. Though unable to believe in 
occult influences, he could not help wondering at the 
curious chances of human destiny. 

“You say yes as if you were thinking of the 
death of your grandfather,” cried the man nearest 
to him. 

“Ah!” replied Raphael, in a candid tone which 
brought a laugh from this group of young writers, the 
hope of rising France, “ I am thinking, friends, that 
we are in a fair way to become great scoundrels. 
Hitherto we have done our impiety before the shrine 
of Bacchus ; we have questioned life when drunk, and 
estimated men and things while digesting. Virgin in 
act, we were bold in words ; but now, branded by the 
red-hot iron of politics, we are about to enter the 
galleys and lose all illusions. If one does n’t any 
longer believe in the devil, it is allowable to regret the 
paradise of youth and the days of our innocence, when 
we devoutly put out our tongues to a priest to receive 
the sacrament. Ah, my good friends, if we found so 
much happiness in committing our flrst sins, it was 
because remorse gave them spice and flavor, whereas 
uow — 


The Magic Skin, 


49 


“Oh! now,” said the first spokesman, “there is 
nothing left but — ” 

“ — but what? ” cried a third. 

“ Crime ! ” 

“ That’s a word that carries with it the height of a 
gibbet, and the depths of the Seine,” retorted RaphaeL 
“ You don’t understand me ; I’m talking of political 
crime. For the last twenty-four hours I covet but one 
career, — that of a conspirator. I won’t say that to- 
morrow my fancy may not have taken wings; but 
to-night the pale face of our civilization, as fiat as the 
level of a railroad, makes my soul leap with disgust. 
I ’m seized with a passion for grand emotions, for the 
horrors of the retreat from Moscow, for the excitements 
of a Red Rover and the life of a smuggler. As there 
is no longer a La Trappe in France, I should like to 
have a Botany Bay, — a sort of infirmary for little Lord 
Byrons, who, after soiling and rumpling their lives as 
they do their napkins at dinner, have nothing better to 
think of than blowing up the nation, cutting their 
throats, conspiring for the republic, or howling for 
war.” 

“ Simile,” cried the man nearest to Raphael, address- 
ing the speaker excitedly, “ on my word of honor, if it 
had n’t been for the revolution of July, I should have 
made mj^self a priest, so as to lead an animal life 
down in the depths of some country region, and — ” 

“ — read 3"Our breviar}^ every day?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You ’re a pretty' fellow ! ” 

“ Well, don’t we read the newspapers every day? ” 

“ Good ! for a journalist — but hold your tongue, 
4 


50 


The Magic Skin. 


we are walking among a crowd of subscribers. Jour- 
nalism, don’t you see, is the religion of modern society, 
and it is certainly an improvement on the old.” 

“ How so?” 

“ Its pontiffs are not expected to believe in it — nor 
the people either.” 

Chatting thus, like worthy fellows who have known 
De Viris lllustribus these many years, they reached 
a private house in the rue Joubert. 

Emile was a journalist who had won more fame by 
doing nothing than others had got out of their suc- 
cesses. He was a bold critic, with plenty of sarcasm 
and dash, and possessing all the virtues of his defects. 
Frank and jovial, he uttered his epigrams to the face 
of a friend, whom he would loyallj^ and courageously 
defend behind his back. He scoffed at everything, 
even his own future. Alwaj'S impecunious, he re- 
mained, like most men of his calibre, plunged in a 
state of utter indolence, flinging the makings of a book 
in a single witticism at the heads of men who did not 
know how to put a witty saying into their own books. 
Prodigal of promises which he never performed, he had 
made his fame a comfortable cushion on which he 
slept, — running no small risk of waking up some day, 
an old man in a hospital. For the rest, faithful in 
friendship even to the scaffold, braggart of c^micism, 
and simple as a child, he never worked except b}^ fits 
and starts, and then onlj^ from sheer necessity. 

“ We shall have, to use the words of maitre Alco- 
fribas, a famous trongon de chiere lie^" he said to 
Eaphael, showing him the stands of rare flowers which 
perfumed and decorated the staircase. 


The Magic Skin. 


51 


“ I like entrances and halls that are well-warmed 
and well-carpeted,” answered Raphael. “ Luxury that 
begins at the peristyle is too rare in France. I already 
feel myself a new man.” 

“We shall drink and laugh once more, my poor 
Raphael — Ha, ha,” he continued. “ I hope that you 
and I will come off conquerors, and walk over the 
heads of those fellows.” 

So saying he pointed with a mocking gesture to the 
company assembled in a salon resplendent with lights 
and gilding, where they were instantly welcomed by a 
number of the most remarkable young men in Paris. 
One had lately revealed a great talent, and had painted 
a picture that rivalled in fame the art of the Empire. 
Another had just published a book full of sap, stamped 
with an air of literary disdain, which pointed out new 
lines for modern thought. Farther on, a sculptor, 
whose rugged face bespoke a vigorous genius, was 
talking with one of those cold critics who, as the fancy 
takes them, either refuse to see the signs of superiority 
or imagine them ever}- where. Here, the wittiest of our 
caricaturists, he of the mischievous e^^e and the satiri- 
cal lip, was on the lookout for epigrams which his 
crayon would reproduce. There, too, the audacious 
3^oung writer who knew the art of distilling the quintes- 
sence of political thought and of condensing, as he 
played with it, the mind of a redundant writer, was 
talking with a poet whose works would crush all others 
of the present day if his talent were as strong as his 
hatred. Both were trying not to speak the truth and 
not to lie, all the while addressing each other with 
sweetest flattery. A celebrated musician was satin- 


62 


The Magic Skin, 


cally consoling in C flat a newly fledged deputy who had 
recently had a fall in the tribune, without however do- 
ing himself much injury. Young authors without style 
were grouped with young authors without ideas, prose- 
writers full of poetry with prosaic poets. A poor Saint- 
Simonian, simple enough to put faith in his own doc- 
trine, observing these incompleted beings, coupled them 
charitably, wishing perhaps to convert them into be- 
lievers of his order. 

Besides all these, there were two or three learned 
men capable of putting nitrogen into the conversation, 
and several writers of comic drama flinging about them 
an ephemeral brightness which, like the sparkling of 
diamonds, gave neither warmth nor light. A few para- 
doxical beings, laughing in their sleeves at the men who 
adopted their admirations or their contempt for men 
and things, were already at work, with that double- 
faced policy by which they conspire against all systems 
and take sides with none. The carping critic without 
real impulse, who blows his nose during a cavatina at 
the opera, cries ‘ ‘ Bravo ! ” before everybody else but 
contradicts those who precede him, was present watching 
his chance to appropriate the sayings of witty men. 
Among the whole company, probably five had a dis- 
tinguished future ; a dozen were likely to obtain some 
passing fame ; as for the rest they might, like other 
mediocrities, adopt the famous lie of Louis XVIII., 
“ Union and oblivion.” The amphitryon of the feast 
showed the anxious gayety of a man who is spending 
six thousand francs. From time to time his e3'es 
turned impatiently to the door of the salon, as if to call 
up some belated guest who kept him waiting. Presently? 


The Magic Skin. 


53 


a fat little man arrived who was received with a flatter- 
ing murmur of voices. It was the notary who, that very 
morning, had drawn up the papers which called the 
new journal into existence. A footman dressed in 
black opened the doors of a vast dining-room, where 
each guest unceremoniously looked for his place at an 
immense table. 

Raphael threw a glance around the salon before 
leaving it. Assuredl}*, his wish was so far completely 
satisfied. Gold and silken stuffs filled the apartment ; 
rich candelabras, holding innumerable wax-candles, 
brought out the slightest details of the gilded friezes, 
the delicate chiselling of the marbles, and the sump- 
tuous colors of the furniture ; rare plants, in bamboo 
baskets artistically woven, filled the room with fra- 
grance ; even the draperies had an air of unpretending 
elegance. There was throughout an inexpressible poetic 
grace, whose charm acted powerfullj" on the imagination 
of the penniless man. 

“An income of a hundred thousand francs is a very 
pretty commentary on the catechism, and helps us won- 
derfully in putting morality into action ! ” he said, sigh- 
ing. “ Yes, my virtue was never meant to go a-foot. 
To me, vice is a garret, a ragged coat, a shabby hat 
in winter, and debts to the porter. Ha ! I wish to live 
in the midst of such luxury as this for a year, six 
months, no matter how long — and then die. I shall 
then have known, exhausted, and annihilated a thou- 
sand lives. ’’ 

“My dear fellow,” cried Simile, who was listening to 
him, “ you are mistaking the ease of a money-changer for 
happiness. You would grow sick of wealth as soon as 


54 


The Magic Skin. 


you found out that it deprives you of all chance of oe- 
coming a superior man. Between the poverty of riches 
and the riches of poverty no true artist has ever hesi- 
tated. We must struggle — and you know it. But 
now prepare j'our stomach ; behold ! ” he cried, pointing 
with heroic gesture to the triply sacred, gorgeous, and 
reassuring spectacle presented by the dining-room of 
the crapulent capitalist. “ That man whom j’ou see 
there,” he said pointing him, out, “ has actually taken 
the trouble of amassing his money for us. He is a kind 
of sponge which the naturalists forgot to include in the 
order of the potypi, and it is bur bounden duty to 
squeeze him carefully before his heirs can suck at him. 
Just notice the elegance of those bas-reliefs round 
the walls? and the pictures, the lustres — what well- 
selected luxurj^ ! If we are to believe envious folks 
and those who are alwaj's searching into the hidden 
springs of life, that man murdered his best friend, a 
German, and the mother of that friend during the 
Revolution. Would you think there were such crimes 
under the grizzly hair of that venerable Taillefer? He 
looks like a good fellow. See how the silver sparkles ; 
if he were what they say he is, would n’t every ray of 
its glitter be a dagger in his heart ? Pooh, better be- 
lieve in Mohammed at once ! Yet, if the world sa^’s 
true, here are thirty men of honor and talent about to 
eat the bodies and drink the blood of a family ; and you 
and I, models of candid youth and enthusiasm, we are 
accomplices in the deed. I ’ve a good mind to go up 
and ask our capitalist if he is a murderer.” 

“ Not now,” cried Raphael; “ wait till he is dead- 
drunk, and then we shall have dined.” 


The Magic Skin. 


56 


The two friends took their places, laughing. At first, 
and with a glance more rapid than a word, each guest 
paid tribute of admiration to the sumptuous elegance of 
the table, white as new-fallen snow, on which the little 
hummocks of napkins were symmetrically placed. The 
glasses shed prismatic colors in their starry reflections ; 
wax candles cast an infinitude of light ; the viands, 
served under silver covers, sharpened both appetite and 
curiosity. Words were few. The guests looked at each 
other. Madeira was passed round. Then the first course 
was served in all its glory. It would have done honor 
to the late Cambaceres, and Brillat-Savarin might have 
written of it. Claret and burgund}’, white and red, 
were served with regal profusion. This opening of the 
feast might be likened to the prologue of a classic 
drama. The second act became somewhat talkative. 
Each guest, changing his wines according to his fancy, 
had drunk sufficient!}^ to take part, when the sumptuous 
course was removed, in excited discussions ; pale faces 
were already flushed, noses were slightly purple, faces 
burned, and eyes glittered. During this aurora of in- 
toxication, the talk did not pass beyond the limits of 
courtesy ; but, little b}^ little, sarcasms and witty 
speeches escaped certain lips ; then calumny gently 
raised its serpent-head and protruded its forked tongue ; 
here and there' a few craft}" souls listened attentively, 
endeavoring to hold themselves in hand. The second 
course found the company thoroughly excited. Each 
man ate as he talked, and talked while he ate, without 
heed to the quantity of liquid that he drank, so appro- 
priate and perfumed were the wines, and so contagious 
the example. 


56 


The Magic Skin, 


Taillefer piqued himself on exciting his guests, and 
ordered on those terrible wines of the Rhone region, the 
hot Tokaj'^, and the old, heady Rousillon. Like un- 
bridled post-horses let loose at a rela}^ the guests, 
lashed by the fires of champagne impatiently awaited 
and abundantly served, let their minds gallop into 
vague discussions to which no one listened, recounted 
tales that had no auditors, and began over and over 
again a series of cross-questionings to which there came 
no reply. Orgy alone had a voice that made itself heard, 
— the voice of a hundred confused clamors which rose 
and swelled like the crescendos of Rossini. Then came 
enticing toasts, boastful speeches, and provocations. 
All present renounced intellectual capacity to claim 
that of vats and tuns. It seemed as though each man 
possessed two voices ; and there came a moment when 
all the masters talked at once, and the footmen smiled. 
But this medley of words, where paradoxes of doubtful 
brilliancy and truths grotesquely dressed up jostled each 
other amid shouts and queries, arbitrary assertions and 
silly sayings, — like the thick of a combat hurtling with 
bullets, balls, and grape-shot, — would doubtless have 
interested some philosopher b}^ the singularity of the 
thoughts that came to the surface, and amazed a poli- 
tician by the oddity of the proposed systems. The whole 
scene was at once a lesson and a picture. Philosophies, 
religions, moralities of every latitude, governments, 
indeed, all the great acts of human intelligence, fell under 
a scythe as sweeping as that of Time ; and an observer 
might have found himself puzzled to decide whether 
it were handled by drunken Wisdom, or by Drunken- 
ness grown wise and clear-sighted. Carried away by 


The Magic Skin. 


57 


a sort of whirlwind, these excited minds, like angry 
waves rushing at a cliff, sought to shake the laws that 
float civilizations, — unconsciously doing the will of God, 
who has left good and evil within the bounds of nature, 
keeping for himself alone the secret of their perpetual 
warfare. The discussions, growing more and more 
burlesque and furious, became at last, as it were, a 
witches’ sabbath of intellects. Between the dismal 
jests of these children of the Revolution over the birth 
of their new journal, and the vigorous talk of the jovial 
topers at the birth of Gargantua lay the vast ab3'ss 
which separates the nineteenth from the sixteenth cen- 
tury’. The latter made read^" destruction with a laugh ; 
ours laughs amid the ruins. 

“ What is the name of the 3’oung man whom I see 
over there?” asked the notaiy, pointing to Raphael. 
“ Did n’t I hear some one call him Valentin? ” 

“ What do 3’ou mean by Valentin short oflf?” cried 
Emile, laughing. “ Raphael de Valentin, if 3^011 please. 
We bear sable, an eagle displayed or, crowned argent, 
beaked and taloned gules ; with a glorious motto : JV^on 
cecidit animus. Let me tell you that we are no found- 
ling, but a descendant of the Emperor Valens, progenitor 
of the Valentinois, founder of the cities Valence in France, 
and Valencia in Spain, legitimate heir of the empire of 
the East. If we allow Mahmoud to sit upon our throne 
of Constantinople, it is out of pure good nature and 
lack of soldiers and money.” Here ^rnile drew a crown 
with his fork in the air above Raphael’s head. 

The notary reflected for a moment and then began 
to drink again, making a deprecating gesture, by which 
he seemed to admit that he could not connect hi» 


The Magic Skin, 


58 

practice with the cities of Valence, Constantinople, 
the sultan, the emperor, or the Valentinois. 

“ The destruction of those ant-hills called Bab3don, 
Tyre, Carthage, or Venice, inevitably crushed by the 
foot of any giant who stepped their way, was a warn- 
ing given to man by some demon power, ’’ said Claude 
Vignon, a species of slave, hired to do Bossuet at ten 
sous a line. 

“Moses, Sj'lla, Louis XI., Richelieu, Robespierre, 
and Napoleon, are perhaps but one man, reappearing 
across the civilizations like a comet across the sky,” 
replied a disciple of Ballanche. 

‘ ‘ Whj^ attempt to fathom Providence ? ” said Canalis, 
the maker of ballads. 

“Providence indeed!” cried the critic, interrupting 
him. “ I know nothing under the sun so elastic.” 

“ But, monsieur, Louis XIV. sent more men to their 
death in building the aqueduct between Maintenon and 
Versailles than the Convention guillotined to obtain 
just taxes, equality before the law, the nationality of 
France, and the equal division of family propertj’,” said 
Massol, a young man who had become a republican 
for want of a S3dlable before his name. 

“ Monsieur,” replied Moreau de TOise, a worthy 
land-owner, “3’ou who drank blood for wine, do 3’ou 
\^iean to leave men’s heads on their shoulders this 
time?” 

“Why should we, monsieur? Don’t 3^ou think the 
principles of social order are worth some sacrifices ? ” 

“ Bixiou ! hi! What’s-his-name, here, the republi- 
can, declares the land-owner’s head must be sacrificed,” 
said a 3’oung man to h^ neighbor. 


The Magic Skin, 


69 


“ Men and events are nothing,” said the republican, 
continuing his theory amid a chorus of hiccoughs ; 
“ principles and ideas are all that should be considered 
in politics and philosophy.” 

“ Horrors ! do 3’ou mean to say you wouldn’t mind 
killing your friends for a — ” 

“ Hey ! monsieur ; the man who feels remorse is the 
true villain, for he has some idea of virtue ; whereas 
Peter the Great and the Duke of Alba were systems 
— Monbard, the pirate, was an organization.” 

“ But can’t society do without your systems and 
3' our organizations?” demanded Canalis. 

“ Oh, I ’ll agree to that,” cried the republican. 

“Pah! 3’our stupid republic makes me sick at my 
stomach. Presently we sha’n’t be able to carve a 
capon without running against some agrarian law.” 

“ Your principles are fine, my little Brutus stuffed 
with truffles. But you are like my valet ; the fellow 
is so possessed with the lust of cleanliness that if I 
M^ere to let him brush m3^ clothes as much as he liked, 
I should go naked.” 

“ You are all stupid dolts, — 3-ou want to cleanse the 
nation with a tooth-brush,” retorted the republican. 
“ According to 3"our ideas, justice is more dangerous 
than thieves.” 

“ Hear ! hear I ” exclaimed Desroches, the law3’er. 

“ What bores the}" are with their politics ! ” said 
Cardot, the notary. “ Shut the door. There ’s no 
science, and no virtue that is worth a drop of blood. 
If we tried to liquidate truth, ten to one we should find 
her bankrupt.” 

“ Well, no doubt it would cost less to amuse our- 


60 


The Magic Skin. 


selves with e\al, than to quarrel about good ; and for 
m3' part I would willingl}" exchange ever}’ word de- 
claimed in the tribune during the last forty years, 
for a trout, or a sketch by Charlet, or a stor}' of 
Perrault’s.’’ 

“And right enough, too, — pass me the asparagus, 
— for, after all, liberty gives birth to anarchy, and 
anarchy leads to despotism, and despotism brings back 
liberty. Millions of beings have perished without 
being able to make an}' system triumph. Is n’t it 
plainly a vicious circle, in which the moral world will 
turn forever? When a man thinks he has made a 
perfect reformation, he has simply displaced things.” 

“Oh! oh! ” cried Cursy, the writer of farces, “then 
I propose a toast to Charles X., the father of liberty.” 

“ Why not?” said Emile ; “ when despotism is in the 
laws liberty is in the mind and morals, and vice versa.'" 

“Then let us drink to the imbecility of the power 
which gives us so much power over imbeciles,” said the 
banker. 

“ But, my dear fellow, Napoleon, you must admit, 
gave us glory,” cried an officer of marines, who had 
never been outside the harbor of Brest. 

“Pooh! glory? a forlorn commodity. It costs dear 
and doesn’t last. It is the egotism of great men, just 
as happiness is that of fools — ” 

“ What a happy fellow you must be ! ” 

“ The man who invented ditches was doubtless some 
weakling, — for society only benefits the puny beings. 
Those who stand at the two extremities of the moral 
world — the savage and the thinker — have an equal 
horror of property.” 


The Magic Skin, 


61 


“Fine talk!” cried Cardot. “If there were no 
property how could we make conveyances?” 

“ These green peas are ideally delicious — ” 

“ And the curate was found dead in his bed, the very 
next day — ” 

“ Dead! who is talking of death? don’t joke about 
it. I ’ve got an uncle — ” 

“ And you are resigned to lose him? ” 

“ That ’s not a fair question.” 

“ Listen to me, gentlemen, and I ’ll tell 3’ou how to 
kill an uncle. [Hush ! Listen !] Have an uncle, short 
and fat, and sevenths at least ; that is the best kind of 
uncle [sensation]. Make him, under any pretence 3’OU 
please, eat a Strasburg pie — ” 

“ Eh ! but my uncle is tall and lean and miserly and 
sober.” 

“ Oh, those uncles are monsters who misuse life.” 

“ Well,” said the instructor in uncles, continuing, 
“ tell him, while he is digesting, that his banker has 
failed—” 

“ Suppose he survives it?” 

“ Then send him a pretty girl — ” 

“ Malibran’s voice has lost two notes.” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! yes and no ; that ’s the history of all dis- 
cussions, religious, political, and literary ; they never 
get beyond that. Man is a buffoon, who dances at the 
edge of a precipice.” 

“ To listen to you, one would think I was a fool.” 

“ On the contrar}', that ’s precisety because 3rou don’t 
listen to me.” 


62 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Education ! what nonsense it is ! Monsieur Heinef- 
fettermach declares there are more than one thousand 
million printed volumes, and man’s life is only long 
enough to let him read one hundred and fift}" thousand. 
And so, explain to me, if 3’ou please, the meaning of 
that word ‘ education.’ Some people think it consists 
in knowing the names of Alexander’s horse, of the dog 
Berecillo, of the Seigneur des Accords, and ignoring 
that of the man to whom we owe the floating of wood 
and the making of porcelain. ‘ Education ’ to others 
means the capacity' to burn a will and live like honest 
folk, beloved and respected, instead of stealing a watch 
for the tenth time with the five aggravating circum- 
stances, and dying on the place de Greve hated and 
dishonored.” 

“Will Nathan continue his paper?” 

“ Ah ! his contributors have such wit.” 

“ How about Canalis ? ” 

“ A great man ; don’t talk of him.” 

“You are drunk.” 

“ The immediate result of a constitution is to lower 
the level of intelligence. Arts, sciences, public build- 
ings, are all eaten into by an awful selfishness, the 
leprosj’ of our da3\ Take your three hundred bour- 
geois seated on benches ; ever}" man of them thinks of 
planting poplar-trees, and of nothing else. Despotism 
does great things illegally, liberty won’t trouble herself 
to do legall}’ even the smallest things — ” 

The present system of education,” said a partisan of 
despotic power, “ turns out human minds like five-franc 
pieces from the mint. Individualit}^ disappears among 
a people who are flattened to one level by education.” 


The Magic Skin, 


63 


“ And yet, is n’t the very object of society to procure 
happiness for all?” demanded the Saint-Simonian. 

“ When 3’ou get an income of fift}" thousand francs 
you won’t think about the happiness of the masses. 
But if 3"ou are captivated b^’ the noble passion for 
humanit}^, go to Madagascar ; there ’s a nice little 
people all read}" to your hand, brand-new, to Saint- 
Simonize and classify and label ; but here in France 
we all live in our particular cells, as a key turns in its 
own lock. Porters are porters, and ninnies are fools, 
without needing a diploma from a college of Fathers ; 
ha! ha!” 

“ You are a Carlist ! ” 

“ Why should n’t I be? I like despotism ; it shows 
a contempt for the human race. I can’t hate kings, they 
are so amusing. To sit on a throne in a chamber about 
thirty million leagues from the sun, do you call that 
nothing?” — 

“ But let us take a larger view of civilization,” said a 
man of science, who had undertaken, on behalf of an 
inattentive sculptor, a disquisition on the origin of 
society and autochthonous peoples, “At the birth of 
nations power was, as it were, material, single, brutal ; 
then, as aggregation took place, governments were car- 
ried on by the decomposition, as it were, of the primi- 
tive power. For instance, in remote antiquity power 
was theocratic; the priest held the sword and the 
censer. Later, there were two sacerdotal powers ; the 
pontiff, and the king. To-day our society, the last ex- 
treme of civilization, has distributed power among a 
number of combined forces, called by such names as 
industry, though^-, wealth, speech. No longer possess- 


64 


The Magic Skin. 


ing unity, power tends toward a social dissolution to 
which there is no barrier except self-interest. We no 
longer rest upon religion nor upon material strength, 
but upon intellect. Is theory as powerful as the 
sword ? is discussion as strong as action ? there *s the 
question.” 

“ Intellect has killed everything,” cried the Carlist. 
“Absolute liberty drags nations to suicide; they are 
sick and tired of success, like a British millionnaire.” 

“ What next? Where will these ideas of yours land 
3"ou? You ridicule all power, and what is that but 
the worn-out vulgarity of denying God? You have 
no beliefs. The age is like an old sultan given 
over to debaucherj’ ; and that ’s vfhy y’our Lord B^Ton, 
in final despair of poetrj^, chanted the passions of 
crime.” 

“ Do 3’ou know,” remarked Horace Bianchon, who 
was now completel}" drunk “ that one dose more or less 
of phosphorus makes a man of genius or a villain, a 
wit or an idiot, a virtuous man or a criminal ? ” 

How can you talk thus of virtue,” cried De Cursy ; 
“ of virtue, the ke^'-note of dramas, the backbone of 
theatres, the foundation of all courts of justice? 

“Hold your tongue, animal! Your virtue is like 
Achilles without his heel,” retorted Bixiou. 

“ Your health ! ” 

“ Will you bet that I can drink a bottle of champagne 
at a flash ? ” 

“ What a flash of wit I ” sneered Bixiou. 

“ They are as drunk as plough-boys,” said a young 
man who tipped a good deal of his wine into his waist- 
coat 


The Magic Skin. 


65 


“Yes, monsieur; the government of the day is the 
art of putting public opinion into power.” 

Public opinion ! the most depraved of all prosti- 
tutes ! To hear you men of morality and politics, we 
must believe in your dogmas against every law of nature 
and conviction and conscience. Bah ! all is true, and 
all is false. If society gives us down pillows, she makes 
it up by gout ; just as she puts up law to modify justice, 
and colds in the head as a set-off against cashmere 
shawls — ” 

“Monster!” cried ilmile, interrupting the misan- 
thropist, “ what do you mean b}^ slandering civilization 
in presence of such wines, such viands, such delicacies 
up to our very chins ? Put your teeth into this venison, 
but don’t bite your own mother.” 

“Is it my fault, pray, that Catholicism has put a 
million of gods into a sack of flour, that all republics 
end in a Robespierre, that royalty hangs between the 
assassination of Henri IV. and the decapitation of Louis 
XVI., or that liberalism turns into a La Fayette?” 

“ Did you embrace him in July? ” 

“No.” 

“ Then hold 3’our tongue, sceptic.” 

“ Sceptics are conscientious men.” 

“ Thej" have no conscience.” 

“ What do you mean? Thej" have two.” 

“ Discounting heaven ! there you are with ^^oui 
commercial ideas. The ancient religions were only 
the happ3^ development of physical pleasure ; but we 
have developed hope and a soul ; that is progress.” 

“ He3" ! mv good friends ; what can you expect of 
im age stinking with politics?” asked Nathan. “What 


66 


The Magie Skin. 


was the fate of the ‘ King of Bohemia and his seven 
castles?’ the wittiest conception — ” 

“That?” screamed the critic, from the other side 
of the table, — ‘ ‘ phrases, drawn for luck out of a hat ; 
a book written in a madhouse — ” 

“ You ’re a fool ! ” 

“ You ’re a scoundrel ! ” 

“ Oh, oh ! ” 

“ Ah, ah ! ” 

“They’ll fight.” 

“No, they won’t.” 

“ To-morrow, monsieur.” 

“ At once,” replied Nathan. 

“ Come, come, you are both honorable men.” 

“ You ’re another,” said the aggressor. 

“ Neither of them can stand upright.” 

“Can’t I?” said the bellicose Nathan, attempting 
to get upon his feet like a stag-beetle. He threw a 
stupid look round the table, then, as if exhausted by 
the effort, he fell back in his chair, dropped his head, 
and was silent. 

“Wouldn’t it have been funn}^,” said the critic to 
the man next him, “ if I had fought a duel about a 
book I never read ? ” 

“ Emile, look out for 3'our coat, 3'our neighbor is 
turning pale.” 

“ Kant, monsieur? Onty a balloon sent up to amuse 
fools. Materialism and spiritualism are two pretty 
battledores with which humbugs toss about the same 
shuttlecock. Say that God be in all, according to 
Spinoza, or that all comes from God, according to 
Saint Paul, — idiots ! opening and shutting a door, 


The Magic Skin, 


67 


is n’t that the same action ? Does the egg come from 
the fowl, or the fowl from the egg? answer me that, for 
it is the whole of science.” 

“Ninny!” cried the man of science, “the question 
you ask is chopped in two by a fact.” 

‘ ‘ What fact ? ” 

“The chairs of professors were not made for phil- 
osoph}’, but philosophy for the chairs. Put on your 
spectacles and read the budget.” 

“ Thieves ! ” 

“ Imbeciles ! ” 

“ Scoundrels ! ” 

“ Dupes! ” 

“ Where else but in Paris, would you find such a 
brilliant and rapid interchange of thought,” cried 
Bixiou, in a deep bass voice. 

“ Come, Bixiou, do us a classic farce.” 

“ What shall it be ; the nineteenth century? ” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“ Listen all.” 

“ Silence ! ” 

“ Put down the soft pedals.” 

“ Hold your tongue, blockhead.” 

“ Give him some wine, and that will keep him quiet.” 

“ Go on, Bixiou.” 

The artist buttoned up his black coat, put on his 
gloves and an elderly grimace, intended to represent 
the Revue des Deux-Mondes ; then he squinted — 
but the noise drowned his voice, and it was impossible 
to catch a word of his allocution. If he did not repre- 
sent the nineteenth century, he at least fully represented 
the Revue, for he himself had no idea what he meant. 


68 


The Magic Shin, 


The dessert was served as if by magic. In the 
centre of the table stood a large 4 pergne in gilded 
bronze, from the workshops of Thomire. Tall figures 
of the conventional forms of ideal beauty, held up or 
supported baskets and vases of strawberries, pine- 
apples, white and purple grapes, fresh dates, rosy 
peaches, oranges from Setubal, pomegranates, fruits 
from China, in short, all the surprises of luxury, the 
miraculous productions of hothouses, the choicest and 
most appetizing delicacies. The colors of this gastro- 
nomic picture were heightened by the shimmer of the 
porcelain baskets with their glittering lines of gold, 
and the sparkle of the cut glass vases. Graceful as 
the light fringes of ocean, ferns and mosses drooped 
over landscapes by Poussin, copied on the Sevres. 
A German principality was worth less than this piece 
of ostentation. Silver, mother-of-pearl, gold, and pris- 
matic glass, were disposed about the table for the final 
course ; but the dulled e3’es of the guests and the wordy 
fever of their intoxication prevented them from having 
more than a vague idea of the fairy scene, which was 
indeed worth\^ of an oriental tale. The wines of the des- 
sert added their own fierj" perfumes, like powerful phil- 
ters or magic vapors that generated a sort of intellectual 
mirage, chaining the feet and enervating the hands. 
The beautiful p3Tamid was pillaged, voices rose high, 
the tumult swelled ; words became indistinct, glass was 
shivered to fragments, and bursts of horrid laughter 
exploded like cartridges. Cursy seized a horn and 
sounded a fanfare. It was like a signal from the devil. 
The assemblage became delirious, howled, whistled, 
sang, shouted, roared, and snarled. One might almost 


The Magic Skin. 


69 


have smiled to see these men, by nature gay, now 
driven by their enjoyments into a tragic mood that 
was worthy of the pages of Crebillon. Some were telling 
their secrets to ears that did not listen. Gloomy faces 
wore the smile of a ballet-girl, when she finishes a 
pirouette. Claude Vignon was dancing like a bear 
to a fife. Intimate friends were fighting. The like- 
nesses to animals that came out on these human faces, 
phenomena which have often been remarked on by 
physiologists, appeared vaguely in their gestures and 
in the movement of their bodies. They were an open 
book, if only some Bichat, cool, sober, and fasting, 
had been there to read it. The master of the feast, 
feeling that he was drunk, did not venture to rise, but 
sat still, encouraging the follies of his guests by a fixed 
smile, and trying all the while to maintain an air of 
decency and good-fellowship. His broad face, now red 
and blue and almost purple, was horrible to behold ; 
it associated itself with the movement about him by 
a motion that resembled the rolling and pitching of a 
ship at sea. 

“Did you murder them?” Simile suddenly asked 
him. 

“ The death penalty is to be abolished in honor of 
the Revolution of July, so they say,” replied Taillefer, 
raising his eyebrows with a look that was both shrewd 
and stupid. 

“ But don’t you sometimes see them in your dreams ? ” 
added Raphael. 

“ There are limits to that,” said the murderer, full of 
gold. 

“ And on his tomb,” cried Emile, sardonically, “ shall 


70 


The Magic Skin. 


these words be engraved by the undertaker, ‘ Stran- 
ger, bestow a tear upon his memory.* Oh ! ” he con- 
tinued, “I’d give a hundred sous to a mathematician 
who would demonstrate by an algebraic equation the 
certainty of hell.” 

He flung a flve-franc piece in the air crying out, 
“ Heads for God ! ” 

“ Don’t look,” cried Raphael, seizing the coin, “ who 
knows? luck is so queer.” 

“Alas!” said ^^Imile, with an air of burlesque sad- 
ness. “ I don’t know where to set my feet between 
the geometry of scepticism and the Pope’s Pater 
noster. Well, no matter, let us drink. ‘Drink* is, I 
believe, the oracle of the Divine Bottle, and serves as 
the conclusion to Pantagruel.” 

“We owe everything to the Pater noster answered 
Raphael, — “our arts, our public monuments, perhaps 
our sciences ; and above all, modern government, in 
which society, vast and teeming as it is, is marvellously 
represented by five hundred intellects, whose forces op- 
pose and neutralize each other, leaving all power to 
Civilization, the colossal queen who has dethroned the 
King, that ancient and terrible figure, that species of 
false destiii}^ created by man to stand between himself 
and God. In presence of so many and vast accom- 
plished things atheism is like a skeleton unable to beget. 
What sa}" you ? ” 

“I reflect upon the seas of blood shed by Catholi- 
cism,” said Emile, coldly. “It has drawn from our 
hearts and our veins a second deluge. But what 
matters it? Every thinking man must march under 
Christ’s banner. He alone has consecrated the triumph 


The Magic Skin, 


71 


of mind over matter ; he alone has revealed to our souls 
the intermediate world which separates us from God.” 

“ You believe that? ” answered Raphael, with the in- 
definable smile of intoxication. “ Well, not to commit 
ourselves, let us drink the famous toast : Diis ignotis / ” 

And they emptied their goblets of science, of car- 
bonic acid gas, of perfume, poetry, and scepticism. 

“ If the gentlemen will pass into the salon,” said the 
maitre d’hotel, “ coflfee will be served.” 

By this time nearly all the guests were wallowing in 
the delights of that limbo where the lamps of the mind 
go out, where the body, delivered of its tyrant, aban- 
dons itself to the delirious joys of liberty. Some, who 
had reached the maximum of drunkenness, were gloomy, 
and strove laboriously to seize some thought that 
might prove to them their own existence ; others, sunk 
in the atrophy of an overloaded digestion, refused to 
stir. The chorus of a song was echoing like the twang 
of some mechanism forced to play out its soulless num- 
bers. Silence and tumult were oddly coupled. Never- 
theless, when the sonorous voice of the maitre d’hotel, 
in default of that of his master, was heard announcing 
fresh delights, the guests rose and advanced half-drag- 
ging, half-supporting each other, until they stopped for 
an instant, charmed and motionless, at the door of the 
salon. 

The enjo3’ments of the banquet paled before the en- 
ticing spectacle now presented to the most susceptible 
of their senses. Round a table covered with a silver 
gilt service, and beneath the sparkling light of many 
candles clustering above them, stood a number of 


72 


The Magic Skin. 


women, whose sudden appearance made the eyes of 
the bewildered guests shine like diamonds. Rich were 
their dresses and their jewels, but richer still their 
dazzling beauty, before which all other splendors of 
the palace paled. The passionate e^^es of these girls, 
bewitching as fairies, were more vivid than the floods 
of light which brought out the shimmer of satin stuffs, 
the whiteness of marbles, and the delicate outline of 
bronze figures. The senses of the guests glowed as 
they caught sight of the contrasts in their attitudes and 
in the decoration of their heads, all diverse in attrac- 
tion and in character. They were like a hedge of 
flowers, strewn with rubies, sapphires, and coral ; bands 
of black were round the snowy throats, light scarfs 
floated from them like the beams of a beacon, turbans 
were proudly worn, and tunics, modestly provocative — 
in short, the seraglio offered seductions to all eyes, and 
pleasures for all caprices. Here, a danseuse, charm- 
ingly posed, seemed as though unveiled beneath the 
undulating folds of a cashmere. There, a diaphanous 
gauze, or an iridescent silk hid, or revealed, mysterious 
perfections. Slender little feet spoke of love, fresh and 
rosy lips were silent. Delicate and decent young girls, 
false virgins, whose pretty hair gave forth a savor of 
religious innocence, seemed to the eye like apparitions 
which a breath might dispel. Aristocratic beauties, 
with haughty eyes, indolent and slender and graceful, 
bent their heads as though they still had regal favors to 
dispense. An Englishwoman with a chaste fair face, de- 
scending, as it were, from the clouds of Ossian, was like 
an angel of melancholy, or an image of remorse fleeing 
from a crime. The Parisian woman, whose whole 


The Magic Skin, 


73 


beauty lies in a grace indescribable, vain of her dress 
and her wit, armed with her all-powerful weakness, 
supple and hard, siren without heart and without pas- 
sion, yet knowing how by mere skill to create the 
treasures of passion, and to simulate the tones of 
the heart, was not wanting in this dangerous bevy ; nor 
yet the Italian, tranquil apparently and conscientious 
in her delights ; nor the superb Norman woman of mag- 
nificent shape ; nor the black-haired Southern beauty, 
with her large and well-formed e3’e. An observer might 
have thought them the beauties of Versailles called to- 
gether by Lebel, who, having spent the day in preparing 
their charms, were now like a troop of Circassian slaves 
aroused at the voice of a merchant to display'” them. 
They appeared confused and bashful ; and clustered 
around the table like bees murmuring about a hive. 
This timid embarrassment, which seemed like reproach 
and coquetry combined, was either a calculated form of 
seduction, or an involuntary shame-facedness. Perhaps 
a feeling which womanhood can never completely cast 
off bade them snatch the mantle of virtue to give greater 
charm and piquancy to vice. 

For an instant the intentions of old Taillefer seemed 
to miss their mark. These reckless men were, for a 
moment, subjugated by the majestic dignity that invests 
a woman. A murmur of admiration like soft music 
was heard. Love had not gone hand in hand with 
drunkenness. In place of stormy passions, the guests, 
overcome by momentary weakness, abandoned them- 
selves to rapturous ecstasy. Touched in their sense 
of poetry, which is forever dominant, artists studied the 
delicate tones of these chosen beauties. A philosopher, 


74 


The Magic Skin. 

roused by a thought due, perhaps, to the carbonic acid 
disengaged from the fumes of champagne, shuddered as 
he thought of the miseries that had brought those 
women there, — women once worthy of the purest 
homage. Each of them, no doubt, had some awful 
drama to relate. Nearly all carried about with them 
the tortures of hell, dragging after them the memory 
of faithless men, of promises betrayed, of joys all too 
bitterly paid for by distress. 

The guests approached these women politely, and 
various conversations, according to the characters of 
each, began ; groups were formed ; the scene was 
like that of a salon in good society where the matrons 
and the young girls offer coffee and liqueurs to gour- 
mands troubled by a recalcitrant digestion. But pres- 
ently bursts of laughter broke forth, the noise increased, 
voices were raised. Revelry, quelled for a moment, now 
lifted its head and threatened to arise. These alterna- 
tions of silence and noise bore a vague resemblance to 
a symphony of Beethoven. 

The two friends, seated on a luxurious sofa, were 
presentl}^ approached b}^ a tall, well-proportioned girl 
of superb bearing, whose regular but keen and impet- 
uous features compelled attention by their vigorous 
contrasts. Her black hair, curling luxuriantly, seemed 
to have undergone already the combats of love, and fell 
in loose locks upon her shoulders, whose perspectives 
were attractive to the eye. The skin, of an ivoiy 
whiteness, brought out the warm tones of her vivid 
coloring. Her eyes, fringed with long lashes, flashed 
flames and sparks of love. The red, moist mouth, half- 
open, invited kisses. The girl’s figure was powerfully 


The Magic Skin, 


75 


built, but amorously elastic; her bosom and arms 
were developed like the noble figures of the Caracci; 
nevertheless she was active and supple with the vigorous 
agility of a panther. Though laughter and frolic wan- 
tonness must have been familiar to her, there was some- 
thing alarming in her eyes and smile. Like a prophetess 
controlled by a demon, she astonished rather than 
pleased those whom she addressed. All expressions 
rushed in turn and like lightning across her mobile face. 
Perhaps she might have fascinated a sated mind, but 
young men would have feared her. She was like a 
colossal statue fallen from the pediment of a Greek 
temple, sublime at a distance, but coarse on nearer 
view. And yet that dangerous beauty was fit to rouse 
the impotent, that voice could charm the deaf, those 
looks reanimate a skeleton. Emile compared her 
vaguely" to a tragedy of Shakspeare, a wonderful 
arabesque, where joy shrieks, where love has I know 
not what of savagery, where the magic of grace and 
the fires of happiness succeed the wild tumults of anger ; 
a monster who can bite and fondle, laugh like a demon, 
weep as the angels, improvise in a single embrace all 
the seductions of womanhood, except the sighs of sad- 
ness and the pure transporting modesty of a virgin, — 
and then, in another instant, roar, and tear her bosom, 
and destroy her passion and her lover and herself like 
an insurrectionary mob. 

She wore a robe of crimson velvet, and advanced 
to the two friends, treading heedlessly underfoot the 
scattered flowers already fallen from the heads of her 
companions, and holding out with disdainful hands a 
silver tray. Proud of her beauty, proud perhaps of her 


76 


The Magic SMn» 


vices, she exhibited a white ann brilliantly relieved 
against the velvet. She stood there like the queen of 
pleasure, like an image of human joy, the joy that dissi- 
pates the hoarded treasures of generations, that laughs 
in presence of the dead, that mocks at age, dissolves 
pearls, casts away thrones, transforms young men to old 
ones, and makes old men 3^oung, — that joy permitted 
onl}^ to giants among men when wearied of power, tried 
in thought, or to whom war has become an amusement. 

“ What is your name?” Raphael asked her. 

“ Aquilina.” 

“Ha, ha! do 3^ou come from ‘Venice Preserved’?” 
cried Emile. 

“Yes,” she answered. “The popes take new 
names when they mount above the heads of men ; and 
so I took another when I rose above the heads of 
women.” 

“ And have 3"OU, like your patron lady, a noble and 
terrible conspirator who loves 3"Ou enough to die for 
you?” said 6mile quickly, roused by the poetic sug- 
gestion. 

“I had,” she answered, “ but the guillotine was m3" 
rival. That is wh3" I always wear some scarlet fripper3" 
— lest m3" joy should go too far.” 

“ Oh ! if 3’ou let her tell 3"Ou the histor3" of the four 
young men of La Rochelle, there will be no end to it. 
Hold your tongue, Aquilina ! Does n’t every woman 
mourn a lover? — though the3" don’t all, like you, have 
the satisfaction of losing them on a scaffold. For ray 
part, I ’d rather think of mine sleeping in a pit at 
Clamart than in m3" rival’s arms.” 

These words were said in a soft, melodious voice by 


The Magic Skin, 


77 


the prettiest, daintiest, most innocent little creature 
that ever issued from an enchanted egg at the touch of 
a fairy's wand. She had approached them noiselessl}^, 
and they now saw her fragile form and delicate face, 
with its ravishing blue eyes full of modesty, and the 
fresh, pure brow. A naiad escaped from her mountain 
stream were not more timid, more fair, more simple than 
this 3’oung girl, who seemed to be about sixteen years 
old, ignorant of love, ignorant of evil, unknowing of 
the storms of life, and as if petitioning angels to recall 
her to the skies before her time. In Paris alone do 
we meet with such creatures, whose candid faces mask 
beneath a brow as pure and tender as the petal of a 
daisy the deepest depravity and the subtlest vice. 
Simile and Raphael accepted the coffee which she 
poured into the cups that Aquilina held, and then be- 
gan to question her. Little by little she transfigured 
to the e^’es of the two poets, as b}^ a baleful allegory, an 
aspect of human life, — holding up, in contrast to the 
fierce and passionate expression of her imposing com- 
panion, a picture of cold corruption, voluptuously^ cruel, 
thoughtless enough to commit a crime, strong enough 
to laugh at it ; a species of devil without a heart, who 
punishes tender and affluent souls for experiencing the 
feelings of which she is deprived ; never without some 
cant of love to sell, a tear for the coffin of a victim, and 
a laugh at night over a bequest. Poets would have 
admired Aquilina ; but the whole world would have fied 
Euphrasia. The one was the soul of vice ; the other was 
vice without a soul. 

“ I should like to know,” Emile said to the pretty 
creature, “ if you ever think of the future?” 


78 


The Magic Skin. 


“ The future?” she answered, laughing. “ What do 
you call the future ? Why should I think about a thing 
that doesn’t yet exist? I never look either forward or 
back. Don’t you think that one day at a time is enough 
for anybody? Besides, we all know what the future is ; 
it is the hospital.” 

“ How can 3^ou look forward to the hospital and not 
tr}" to avoid it ? ” cried Raphael. 

“What is there so dreadful in the hospital?” asked 
the terrible Aquilina. “If we are neither wives nor 
mothers, if old age puts black stockings on our legs 
and wrinkles in our faces, and blasts all that is left 
of a woman within us, and kills our welcome in the eyes 
of our friends, where else can we go ? You see nothing 
in us then but original sin on two legs, cold, withered, 
stiff, and rattling like the leaves in autumn. Our pretti- 
est furbelows become mere rags, the ambergris that 
perfumes our boudoirs gets the odor of the grave, and 
smells like a dead body ; and then, if there ’s a heart in 
this bit of mud y’ou insult it ; j^ou will not even let it 
keep a memory. Whether we are then in a great man- 
sion taking care of dogs, or in a hospital sorting bandages, 
is n’t life for us exactl}' the same thing? Suppose we tie 
up our white hairs in checked handkerchiefs, or hide them 
under laces ; sweep the streets with a broom or the steps 
of the Tuileries with our satin petticoats ; sit at ease by 
a gilded fireplace, or keep warm over the cinders in an 
earthen pot ; see the play’ at the opera or on the place de 
Greve, what difference is there for us?” 

“ Aquilina mia., y’ou never said greater truth than 
that in the midst of all y’our troubles,” returned Eu- 
phrasia. “ Yes, cashmeres, and perfumes, and gold, 


The Magic Skin. 


79 


and silk, and luxury, and all that shines and gives 
pleasure is only fit for youth. Time alone can get the 
better of follies, but happiness meantime absolves them. 
You laugh at what I say,” she cried, with a venomous 
look at the two young men ; “ but am I not right? I 'd 
rather die of pleasure than disease. I have n’t a mania 
for perpetuity, nor much respect for the human species, 
seeing what God has let it come to. Give me millions 
and I ’ll spend them ; I will not keep a penny for next 
year. Live to please and reign, — that is the teaching of 
every pulse in my body. Society bears me out ; is n’t 
it all the time furnishing means for me to dissipate? 
Why else does the good God give me every morning 
the mone}^ for what I dispense at night ? Why else do 
you build us hospitals? We are certainly not placed 
between good and evil to choose what hurts and bores 
us ; and therefore should n’t I be a great fool not to 
enjoy myself? ” 

“ How about others? ” said 6 mile. 

“Others? oh, let them manage for themselves. I’d 
rather laugh at their sufferings than cry for my own. 
I defy a man to cause me an instant’s pain.” 

“What must you have suffered before you came to 
such thoughts ! ” said Raphael. 

“ I have been deserted for money ; 3 ’es, I,” she said, 
taking an attitude that showed off all her seductions. 
“ And 3 "et 1 had passed nights as well as days in work- 
ing to feed my lover. I will no longer be the dupe 
of smiles, nor of any promise ; I mean to make my life 
one long festivity.” 

“But,” cried Raphael, “happiness can come only 
through the soul.” 


80 


The Magic Skin, 


“Well,” said Aquilina, “isn’t it happiness to be 
admired and flattered ; to triumph over all other women, 
even the virtuous ones, and crush them with our beauty 
and our luxury? We have more of life in one day than 
those good women in ten years, and that ’s the whole 
of it.” 

“ What is there so odious as a woman without virtue ? ” 
6mile said to Raphael. 

Euphrasia flung them a viperous look, and answered 
with inimitable irony, “Virtue! we leave that to the 
frights and the hunchbacks ; what would they be with- 
out it, poor things 1 ” 

“Come, be silent!” said Simile; “don’t talk of 
things you know nothing of.” 

“ Don’t I know anything ! ” replied Euphrasia. “ To 
give one’s self all one’s life to a hated being ; to bring up 
children who desert you, and to say ‘Thank you’ when 
thej^ stab you in the breast, — those are the virtues you 
command a woman to have ! And then, to compensate 
her for her self-denials, you try to seduce her and heap 
sufferings on her ; if she resists, you compromise her. 
A ffne life that! better be free and love those who 
please us, and die young.” 

“ But are you not afraid of the penalty?” 

“No,” she replied. “Instead of mixing my pleas- 
ures with griefs, I prefer to cut my life into two parts, 
— a joyous youth, and I know not what uncertain old 
age, during which I shall suffer at my ease.” 

“ She has never loved,” said Aquilina, in a deep 
voice. “ She has never tramped a hundred miles with 
passionate delight to win a glance and a rejection ; she 
never bound her life to a lock of hair, nor tried to stab 


The Magic Skin. 


81 


a hedge of men to save her sovereign, her lord, her 
God. Love, for her, was a jaunty colonel ! ” 

“Ha, ha! La Rochelle,” laughed Euphrasia, “love 
is like the wind ; we know not whence it comes, nor 
whither it goeth. If you had ever been loved by a stupid 
beast, 3^ou would have a horror of men of wisdom.” 

“ The Code forbids that,” retorted Aquilina, ironically. 

“I thought you had more compassion for soldiers,” 
cried Euphrasia, laughing. 

“Ah, well! are not they happy to be able to lay 
aside their intellects?” said Raphael. 

“ Happy ! ” said Aquilina, with a smile of pity and 
of terror, as she cast an awful look at the two friends, — 
“ Happy ! Ah, who knows what it is to be condemned 
to pleasure with death in one’s heart.” 

Whosoever had looked with an observing eye upon 
the scene in this salon would have seen Milton’s Pan- 
demonium anticipated. The blue flames of the circu- 
lating punch gave an infernal color to the faces of those 
who were still able to drink. Frantic dances, prompted 
by brutal vigor, went on ; excited laughter and shouts 
exploded like flreworks. Strewn, as it were, with dead 
and dying, the salon was like a battlefield. The at- 
mosphere was hot with wine, with pleasures, and with 
speech. Intoxication, passion, delirium, forgetfulness 
of the world, were in all hearts, in all faces, written on 
the floors, sounding in the riot, and flung like a veil 
across ever}’ face in seething vapors. A shining dust, 
like the luminous track of a ray of sunshine, shimmered 
in the room, across which glanced eccentric forms and 
grotesque struggles ; here and there groups of con- 
fused figures mingled and were confounded with the 
6 


82 The Magic Skin. 

marble masterpieces of sculpture which decgrated the 
apartment. 

Although the two friends still preserv^ed a doubtful 
intelligence in their ideas and in their conduct, — a last 
quiver, as it were, of their own lives, — it was now im- 
possible for them to distinguish what was real from 
what was visionary' in the fantastic scene ; nor what was 
possible and actual in the supernatural pictures which 
passed like a panorama before their wearied eyes. The 
atmosphere, sultry with visions and with the ardent 
sweetness which moves upon the surface of our dreams ; 
above all, the inward impulse to an activity that was 
loaded with chains, — in short, the phenomena of sleep 
attacked them so powerfully that the scenes of this 
orgy seemed to them at last like the pantomime of a 
nightmare, where movement is noiseless and sound is 
lost to the ear. 

At this crisis the confidential servant of the giver of 
the feast succeeded, not without difficulty, in attracting 
his master’s attention and drawing him into the ante- 
chamber to whisper in his ear: “ Monsieur, the people 
in the neighboring houses are at their windows, and 
complain of the uproar.” 

“ If they are afraid of noise, can’t they spread straw 
before their doors ? ” replied Taillefer. 

Kaphael suddenly burst into a roar of such tempes- 
tuous, incontinent laughter that 6mile asked him the 
meaning of his brutal delight. 

“You can hardly understand me,” he replied. “ In 
the first place I must confess that you stopped me on 
the quai Voltaire at the moment when I was about to 
drown myself. No doubt you will want to know the 


The Magic Skin. 


83 


motives for my suicide. But if I say that by an almost 
magic chance the poetic ruins of material worlds had 
just passed before my e3"es, like a symbolic demonstra- 
tion of human wisdom, and that now, at this moment, 
all the intellectual truths that we ransacked at table are 
brought to a point in these two women, — the living 
representatives of the follies of life, — and that our deep 
indifference to men and things has served as a means 
of transition between the highly wrought pictures of 
two systems of existence, diametricallj^ opposed to each 
other, will 3’ou be a particle the wiser? If 3^ou were 
not drunk you might perhaps see in all that a treatise 
on philosophy.” 

‘ ‘ If 3’our two feet were not resting on that delightful 
Aquilina, whose heavy breathing has a certain analogy 
to the mutterings of an approaching storm,” replied 
Simile, who was himself twining his fingers in Euphra- 
sia’s hair, without really noticing his innocent occupa- 
tion, “ 3’ou would blush at your drunken chatter. Your 
two s3'stems can be uttered in a single sentence, and 
reduced to a single thought. A simple and mechanical 
life leads to senseless wisdom b3^ stifling our minds in 
toil; whereas a life passed in the vague immense of 
abstractions, or in the depths profound of the moral 
world leads to the follies of wisdom. In a word, kill 
emotions if you want to live to old age, or die 3^oung 
accepting the martyrdom of our passions, — that ’s our 
doom. And, I ask you, is such a doom out of keeping 
with the temperaments bestowed upon us b3^ the rough 
jester to whom we owe the pattern of mankind?” 

“ Fool ! ” cried Raphael, interrupting him. “ Go on 
abridging yourself at that rate, and you ’ll write vol- 


84 


The Magic Skin, 


umes. If I pretended to formulate those two ideas, I 
should tell you that man corrupts himself by the exer- 
cise of his reason, and purifies himself by ignorance. 
That ^s the indictment of all societies. But whether we 
live with the wise or die with the fools, the result is, 
sooner or later, the same. Moreover, the grand ab^ 
stracter of quintessences has already expressed those 
two systems by two words : Carymary, Carymara.” 

“ You make me doubt the power of God, for you are 
more stupid than he is powerful,” replied Emile. “ Our 
beloved Rabelais has summed up that philosophy in 
fewer syllables than Carymary^ Carymara; in the Per- 
haps from which Montaigne took his Mow do I know f 
Besides, these modern words of moral science are noth- 
ing more than the exclamation of PjTrho, the father of 
scepticism, halting between good and evil like the ass 
of Buridan between two measures of oats. But do let 
us drop these everlasting discussions which can only 
end nowadays in a yes or a no. What sensation did 
you want to experience by throwing yourself into the 
Seine? Were 3'ou jealous of that hydraulic machine on 
the pont Notre-Dame? ” 

“ Ah ! if 3'ou only knew my life.” 

“ Why, my dear fellow,” cried Emile, “ I did not 
think you so commonplace ; that remark is used up. 
Don’t you know that everybody suffers more than an}'- 
body else ? ” 

“ Ah ! — ” cried Raphael. 

“You are absolutely burlesque with j^our ‘ah!’ 
Come, tell me what disease of soul or body obliges 
you to drive home every morning, b}" some contraction 
of your muscles, the horses which ought by rights to 


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85 


quarter you the night before like those of Damiens? 
Have you eaten your dog raw, without salt, in your 
garret? Have your children cried to you, ‘Give us 
bread ’ ? Have you sold your mistress’s hair for a last 
napoleon at the gambling-table? Have you paid away 
a sham note on a false uncle and know it won’t pass ? 
Come, 1 am ready to listen. If you intended to fling 
yourself into the river for a woman, or a protested note, 
or because you were tired of life, I repudiate you. 
Confess yourself, and don’t lie ; I won’t ask for strict 
historical facts. Above aU, be as brief as your drunken- 
ness will allow ; remember, I ’m as exacting as a novel- 
reader and as near asleep as a woman at vespers.” 

“Poor fool!” said Raphael. “Since when are 
sufferings not measured to our sensibility ? When we 
reach a degree of science that will enable us to make a 
natural history of hearts, — to name them, and classify 
them in species, sub-species, families, Crustacea, fossils, 
saurians, animalculse, and heaven knows what, — then, 
my dear friend, it will be found that some are as ten- 
der and delicate as a flower broken by a touch of which 
the mineral heart is utterly unconscious.” 

“ Oh ! for heaven’s sake, spare me the preface,” 
cried Simile, with a look that was half-merry, half-piti- 
ful, as he took his friend’s hand. 


86 


The Magic Skin, 


PART IL 

THE WOMAN WITHOUT A HEART. 

After remaining silent for a moment Raphael said, 
with a half-careless gesture : — 

“ I don’t really know whether the fumes of punch and 
wine have, or have not, something to do with a species 
of lucidity of mind which enables me at this moment to 
grasp the whole of my life as though it were a picture, 
where figures, colors, lights, shadows, and half-tints are 
faithfull}’ rendered. This poetic play of my imagina- 
tion would not surprise me if it were not accompanied 
by a feeling of contempt for my suflerings and for my 
former joys. Seen from a distance, my life seems as 
though shrunken by some moral phenomenon. This 
long, slow agony which has lasted ten years, can to- 
night be reproduced bj’ a few sentences, in which 
suffering is no more than a thought, and pleasure a 
philosophical reflection. I now pass judgment ; I feel 
nothing.” 

“You are as wearisome as an amendment in process 
of elucidation,” cried i]mile. 

“Possibly,” replied Raphael, without resentment. 
“ And, therefore, to relieve your ears I spare 3’ou the 
first seventeen years of my life. Till then I lived, like 
you and a thousand others, the school and college life 


The Magic Skin. 


87 


whose fancied troubles and real joys are the delights 
of memory ; a life whose Friday vegetables our pam- 
pered stomachs desire — so long as they cannot get 
them — that happy life whose toil may now seem con- 
temptible, but which, nevertheless, trained us to 
labor — ” 

“ Get to the story,” said 6mile, in a tone half-comic, 
half-plaintive. 

“ When I left college,” resumed Raphael, “ my father 
subjected me to severe discipline ; he made me sleep in 
a room adjoining his study ; I went to bed at nine, and 
got up at five. He meant me to stud}" law conscien- 
tiously ; and I did so, both at the law’-school and in a 
law’yer’s oflSce. But the rules of time and distance 
were so rigidly applied to my walks and my studies, 
and at dinner my father inquired so closely into them — ” 

‘‘ What’s all that to me? ” said Emile. 

“ The devil take you ! ” replied Raphael. How am 
I to make you understand my feelings unless I tell you 
the facts that imperceptibly influenced my soul, en- 
slaved it to fear, and kept me a long time in the primi- 
tive simplicity of youth? Until I was twenty-one years 
old I succumbed to a despotism as cold as any monastic 
rule. To show you the dreariness of my life, I need 
only picture my father. He was a tall, slender man, 
with a hatchet face and a pale complexion ; concise in 
speech, as fond of teasing as an old maid, and pre- 
cise as an accountant. His paternity overshadowed, 
like a leaden dome, all my lively and joyous thoughts. 
If I tried to show him a soft and tender feeling he 
treated me like a child who had said a silly thing. I 
dreaded him far more than you and I ever feared a 


88 


The Magic Skin. 


school-master; and to him I was never more than 
eight years old. I think I see him now. In his 
maroon- colored overcoat, standing as straight as a 
paschal taper, he looked like a smoked herring wrapped » 
in the reddish cover of an old pamphlet. And yet I 
loved him, for in the main he was just. Perhaps we 
never really hate severity if it accompanies a noble 
character and pure conduct, and is occasionally inter- 
mingled with kindness. If my father never left me 
alone, if, up to the age of twenty, he never allowed me 
to spend as I pleased ten francs, ten rascally, vaga- 
bond francs, — a treasure whose possession, vainly 
coveted, made me dream of ineffable delights, — at least 
he endeavored to procure me a few amusements. After 
promising me a pleasure for several months, he took me 
to the Bouffons, to a concert, and a ball, where I hoped 
to meet with a mistress. A mistress ! to me she was 
independence. Shamefaced and timid, and ignorant of 
the jargon of society, where I knew no one, I came 
home with a heart still fresh, but swollen with desires. 
Then, on the morrow, bridled like a troop-horse by my 
father, I went back to my office and the law-school 
and the Palais. To try to escape the regular routine 
he had laid out for me would have been to excite his 
anger ; he always threatened to ship me to the Antilles 
as a cabin-boy if I did wrong. I used to tremble hor- 
ribly when occasionally I ventured off for an hour or 
two in quest of some amusement. Realize, if you can, 
a vagrant imagination, a tender heart, a poetic soul, 
ceaselessly in presence of the stoniest, coldest, most 
melancholy nature in the world ; in short, marry a 
young girl to a skeleton, and you will have some idea 


The Magic Skin. 


89 


of an existence whose curious inward tumults can onl3? 
be related, — ideas of flight checked b}" the mere aspect 
of my father, desperation calmed by sleep, desires 
repressed, gloom and melancholy charmed away by 
music. I exhaled my misery in melody. Beethoven 
and Mozart were often my faithful confidants. 

“ To-day I smile as I recollect the scruples which 
troubled my conscience at this period of my innocence 
and virtue. If I had set foot in a restaurant I should 
have thought m3'Self ruined ; my imagination made me 
regard a cafe as a place of debaucher}^, where men lost 
their honor and risked their fortunes ; as to my risking 
monej" at play, I must first have had some. No matter 
whether I send 3"OU to sleep or not, I must tell you one 
of the terrible joys of my life, — one of those jo^^s that 
sometimes come to us, armed with claws which are 
driven into our hearts like the red-hot iron into the 
shoulder of a galley-slave. 

“ I was at a ball at the Due de Navarreins’, a cousin 
of my father. To understand my position thoroughly 
3"Ou must know that my coat was shabby and my shoes 
ill-made ; I wore a coarse cravat and gloves that had 
been worn already. I stood in a corner so that I 
could take the ices as they passed me, and watch the 
pretty women at my ease. My father noticed me. 
For some reason which I could never guess, he gave 
me his purse and his keys to keep for him. Close by 
me a number of men were playing cards. I heard the 
chink of gold. I was twenty" years old, and I had often 
longed to pass a whole day plunged in the crimes of 
my age. It was a libertinism of the mind, an analogy 
to which cannot be found in the whims of a courtesan, 


90 


The Magic Skin, 


nor in the dreams of a young girl. For a year past 
I had fancied myself driving in a carriage with a 
beautiful woman beside me, assuming the great man, 
dining at Very’s, going to the theatre in the evening, 
determined not to return to my father till the next 
day, and then armed to meet him with an adventure 
as complicated as the Mariage de Figaro, the results of 
which he could not shake off. I had estimated all this 
happiness at a hundred and fifty francs. I was still, 
3-ou see, under the innocent charm of playing truant. 
Hastily" I turned into a boudoir, where, entirely alone, 
my fingers trembling and my’ eyes burning, I counted 
my father’s money, — three hundred francs ! All my 
imagined joj’S, evoked b}’ that sum, danced before me 
like the witches of Macbeth around their caldron ; 
but mine were alluring, quivering, delightful. I be- 
came at once a resolute scoundrel. Without listenins 
to the buzzing in my ears, or to the violent beating of 
my heart, I took two napoleons, — I still see them 
before me ! Their dates and edges were worn down, 
but Bonaparte’s face was grinning on them. Re- 
placing the purse in my pocket, I returned to the 
card-table, holding the two pieces of gold in the damp 
palm of my hand, and hovering round the pla3'ers like 
a hawk over a poultry-yard. Filled with unspeakable 
emotions, I suddenly threw a keen-sighted glance 
around me. Certain that I was not observed b3’ any 
one who knew me, I put my stake with that of a fat 
and jovial little man, on whose head I accumulated 
more prayers and vows than are made in a tempest at 
sea. Then with a rascally or a machiavelian instinct, 
which was surprising at my age, I posted myself near 


The Magic Skin. 


91 


a door and gazed through the salons, without, how- 
ever, seeing anything. My soul and my eyes were 
upon that fatal green table behind me. 

“ From that evening I date a first physiological obser- 
vation, to which I have since owed the species of pene- 
tration which has enabled me to grasp and comprehend 
certain mysteries of our dual nature. My back was 
turned to the table where my future happiness was 
at stake, — a happiness all the greater, perhaps, because 
it was criminal. Between the players and m^’self was 
a hedge of men, four or five deep ; the murmur of 
voices drowned the chink of gold which mingled with 
the notes of the orchestra ; yet in spite of all these 
obstacles, and by a gift granted to the passions by 
which they are enabled to annihilate time and space, 
I distinctl}^ heard the words of the two pla3"ers, I saw 
their hands, I knew which of them would turn up the 
king, just as plainly as if I had actually seen the 
cards ; ten feet from the game I followed all its intri- 
cacies. M}^ father passed me at that instant, and I 
understood the saving of the Scriptures, ‘ The Spirit 
of God passed before his face.’ I won ; I rushed to the 
table, slipping through the eddying crowd of men, like 
an eel through the broken meshes of a net. M3’ fibres, 
which had been all pain, were now all happiness. I 
was like a convict on his wa3’ to execution, who meets 
the king. As it happened, a man wearing the Legion 
of honor claimed forty francs which he missed. I was 
suspected by the e3’es about me, and I turned pale. 
The crime of having robbed my father seemed to me 
well punished. The fat little man interfered, and said, 
in a voice that seemed to me actually angelic, ‘ These 


92 


The Magic Skin, 


gentlemen all put down their stakes/ and paid the 
forty francs. I raised my head and threw a trium- 
phant glance at the players. After replacing the gold 
I had taken from my father’s purse, I left my gains 
with the worthy man, who went on winning. The 
moment I saw that I had one hundred and sixt}^ 
francs, I wrapped them in my handkerchief so that 
they could neither roll nor rattle during our return 
home, and I played no more. 

“ ‘ What were you doing in the card-room?’ asked 
my father, as we were driving home. ‘ I was looking 
on,’ I answered, trembling. ‘ Well,’ returned my 
father, ‘ there would have been nothing out of the 
way if you had bet a little money yourself on the 
game. In the eyes of the world you are old enough 
to have the right to commit a few follies ; you had my 
purse, and I should have excused you, Raphael, if 3^011 
had taken something out of it.’ 

‘ ‘ I could not answer. When we got home I returned 
the ke3’s and the purse to my father, who emptied the 
latter on the fireplace, counted the gold, and then turned 
to me with a rather kindl3’ manner, sa3fing in deliberate 
tones, with pauses more or less significant between each 
sentence : — 

“‘My son, you are now twenty 3’ears old. I am 
satisfied with 3"Ou. You must have an allowance, if 
only to teach 3’ou economy and give j^ou a knowledge 
of the things of life. You shall have in future one 
hundred francs a month. That sum you can dispose 
of as 3’ou please. Here is the first quarter for the 
coming year,’ he added, fingering the pile of gold as 
if to be sure of the sum. I acknowledge that I came 


The Magic Skin. 


near flinging myself at his feet, and declaring that I 
was a robber, a scoundrel, and — worse than all — a 
liar. Shame withheld me : I tried to kiss him, but he 
repulsed me feebly. 

‘ ‘ ‘ You are now a man, my child,* he said. ‘ What 
I do is a simple and proper thing, for which you need 
not thank me. If I have a right to your gratitude, 
Raphael,’ he continued in a gentler tone, but full of 
dignity ; ‘ it is because I have saved your 3’ outh from 
the evils which blast young men. In future we will 
be a pair of friends. You will take your degree in the 
course of a year. You have, not without some annoy- 
ance and certain privations, gained sterling friends, 
and a love of work which is necessary to men who are 
to take part in the government of their country. Learn, 
Raphael, to understand me. I do not wish to make a 
law^-er, nor yet a notary of you, but a statesman, who 
may one day become the glory of our unfortunate house. 
We will talk of these things to-morrow,* he added, 
dismissing me with a mysterious gesture. 

“After that day my father frankly told me all his 
projects. I was an only child, and my mother had been 
dead ten years. My father, the head of a half-forgotten 
historical family in Auvergne, came to Paris. Gifted 
with the keen perceptions which, when accompanied by 
energy, make the men of the south of France so supe- 
rior to others, he attained to a position at the very 
heart of power, without, however, possessing much out- 
side influence. The Revolution destro3’ed his prospects ; 
meantime he had married the heiress of a noble house, 
and was able under the Empire to restore the family to 
its former affluence. The Restoration, which enabled 


94 


The Magic Skin. 


my mother to recover some of her property, ruined my 
father. Having purchased estates given by the Emperor 
to his generals, which were situated in foreign countries, 
he struggled with lawyers and diplomatists and with 
Prussian and Bavarian courts of justice in the effort to 
retain possession of these contested gifts. My father 
now dragged me into the lab 3 Tinth of these important 
suits, on which our prosperity depended. We might 
be condemned to refund the accrued revenues, as well 
as the value of certain timber cut from 1814 to 1816; 
in which case m 3 " mother’s property would barely suflSce 
to save the honor of our name. 

“ And thus it happened that the day on which my 
father seemed to emancipate me, I fell under a still 
more cruel yoke. I was forced to fight as if on a battle- 
field, to work night and day, to hang around men in 
power and strive to interest them in our affairs, to 
guess at their opinions, their beliefs, to wheedle them, — 
them and their wives and their footmen and their dogs, — 
and to disguise the horrible business under elegant 
manners and agreeable nonsense. Ah! I learned to 
understand the trials which had blasted m 3 " father’s 
face. For a whole year I lived apparentl 3 " the life of a 
man of the world ; but this seeming dissipation and my 
eagerness to become intimate with all who could be 
useful to us, only hid an enormous labor. M 3 " amuse- 
ments were to draw up briefs, m 3 " conversations were 
about claims. Up to that time I had been virtuous 
from the impossibility of giving wa 3 " to the passions of 
a young man ; but now, fearing to cause my father’s 
ruin and my own b 3 ’ the slightest negligence, I became 
m 3 " own despot and I allowed myself neither a pleasure 


The Magic Skin, 


95 


nor an expense. When we are young, when men and 
things have not yet roughl}’’ brushed from our souls the 
delicate bloom of sentiment, the freshness of thought, 
the purity of conscience, which will not let us come to 
terms with evil, we are keenly sensitive to duty ; honor 
speaks to us with a loud voice, and we are forced to 
listen ; we are honest and not two-sided, — and such was 
I at that time. I wished to justify my father’s confi- 
dence. Once I had robbed him of a paltry sum ; now, 
sharing the burden of his troubles, of his name, and his 
familj" honor, I would have given him all that I had 
and all my hopes, just as I did actually sacrifice to him 
my pleasures, finding happiness in the sacrifice. 

“ So, when at last Monsieur de VillMe exhumed, to de- 
feat us, some imperial decree about forfeitures and limi- 
tations, and we saw ourselves ruined, I signed away 
my rights in our estates, keeping only a little island in 
the Loire, where my mother was buried. Perhaps 
sophistries, evasions, and political, philosophical, and 
philanthropic arguments might to-day persuade me not 
to do what our lawyers then called a ‘ foll 3 ^’ But at 
one-and-twent}’ we are, I repeat, all generosity, warmth, 
and love. The tears of relief which I saw in m 3 ’ father’s 
e 3 ’es were to me the noblest of fortunes, and the recol- 
lection of those tears has often since then consoled my 
miseiy. 

“ Ten months after pa 3 ’ing his creditors my father 
died of a broken heart. He had loved me and he had 
ruined me ; the thought killed him. Toward the close 
of the autumn of 1825, when twent 3 ’-two 3 ’ears old, I 
followed, all alone, the body of my earliest friend, my 
father, to its grave. Few .young men have ever found 


96 


The Magic Skin. 


themselves more completely alone with their thoughts, 
behind a hearse, lost in the crowds of Paris, without a 
future and without means. The foundlings of public 
charity have at least a battle-field to look forward to, 
the Government or the procureur du roi for a father, 
the hospital for a refuge ; but I — I had nothing. 

“ Three months later the public administrator paid me 
eleven hundred and twelve francs, the net proceeds of 
the settlement of my father’s estate. Our creditors had 
forced me to sell all our furniture. Accustomed from 
mj^ childhood to set great value on the objects of art 
and luxury with which I was surrounded, I could not 
help showing m}^ surprise at this enforced relinquish- 
ment of everything. ‘Oh,’ said the administrator, 
‘what matter? those things are all so rococo.’ Odious 
word, which destroyed the faiths of my childhood, and 
deprived me of my earliest illusions, — the dearest of 
all. My wealth was derived from the surplus of this 
sale, — my future now la}’ in a linen bag which held 
eleven hundred and twelve francs ; society appeared 
before me as an administrator’s clerk who kept his hat 
on his head. A valet, an old servant who was fond of 
me, and to whom my mother had left an annuity of four 
hundred francs, old Jonathas, said to me as I left the 
house from which in my childhood he had often taken 
me joyously to drive in a carriage, ‘ Be very econom- 
ical, Monsieur Raphael.’ Ah ! poor man, he wept ! 

“Such, my dear Emile, were the events w'hich con- 
trolled my destiny, trained my soul, and forced me, 
still young, into the falsest of all social positions,” con- 
tinued Raphael, after a pause. “ Family ties might 
still have led me to visit a few houses, if my own 


The Magic Skin. 


97 


pride, and the contemptuous indifference of their mas- 
ters had not closed the doors. Though related to 
persons of high station who were lavish of their influ- 
ence for strangers, I was left without friends or pro- 
tectors. Checked in all its aspirations, my soul fell 
back upon itself. By nature straightforward and frank, 
I now seemed cold and dissimulating. My father’s rigor 
had destroj’ed my confidence in myself, I was timid 
and awkward ; I could not believe that my presence had 
any power ; I was displeasing in my own eyes, ugly even ; 
I was ashamed of my own appearance. In spite of the 
inward voice which ought to sustain men of talent 
through every struggle, and which did cry out to me, 
‘ Courage ! onward ! ’ in spite of sudden revelations of 
my power to my own spirit in solitude, in spite, too, of 
the hope which inspired me as I compared the best 
works of the day with those that hovered in my brain, 
I doubted myself as much as if I were a child. I was 
a victim to extreme ambition ; I believed myself des- 
tined to do great things, 3"et I felt m^^self helpless. I 
needed friends, but I had none. I ought to have made 
myself a career in life, but I was forced to hang back 
in solitude, — less timid, perhaps, than ashamed. 

“ During the 3’ear when m3’ father sent me into the 
vortex of Parisian societ3’ my heart was spotless and 
my spirit fresh. Like all grown-up children, I secretly 
longed for a great love. 1 met, among the 3’oung men 
of my age, a set of vain-glorious fellows who carried 
their noses in the air, talked nonsense, seated them- 
selves without a tremor near to the most distinguished 
women, sucked the heads of their canes, attitudinized, 
and put, or pretended to put their heads on every 

7 


98 


The Magic Skin, 


pillow, affecting to consider the virtuous and even the 
most prudish women as an easy conquest, to be cap- 
tured by a word, a bold gesture, or the first insolent 
look. I declare to you on my soul and conscience that 
the possession of power or great literary renown seemed 
to me a triumph less difficult to attain than success with 
a woman of high rank, young, witty, and gracious. I 
found the troubles of my heart, my feelings, my beliefs, 
out of tune with the maxims of society. I was bold, 
but in soul only and not personally. I discovered too 
late that women do not like to be begged for ; I have 
seen many that I adored at a distance, to whom I would 
have given a heart of proof, a soul to rend, an energy 
that feared neither sacrifices nor suffering ; those women 
were won by fools whom I would not hire as servants. 
How man}^ a time, silent and motionless, have I not 
admired the woman of m}^ dreams, floating through a 
ball-room ! Devoting my existence in thought to eternal 
caresses, I put my every hope into a glance ; I offered 
her, in my ecstasy, the love of a man in whom there 
was no guile. At moments, I would have given my life 
for a single hour of mutual love. Well ! I never found 
an ear in which to pour my passionate proposals, nor 
an eye on which my own might linger, nor a heart for 
my heart ; and thus I lived, in all the torments of a 
powerless energy which consumed its own vitals, be- 
cause I lacked either boldness, or opportunity, or ex- 
perience. Perhaps I despaired of making m^^self 
understood, or feared to be understood too well. 

“ And yet each courteous look bestowed upon me 
raised a storm. In spite of m3" readiness to seize upon 
such looks or words and consider them as tender ad- 


The Magic Skin. 


99 


Vances, I have never dared at the right time to speak, or 
refrain, with meaning looks, from speaking. My very 
feelings made my words insignificant, and my silence 
stupid. No doubt there was too much simplicity about 
me for an artificial society that lives b}" lamplight, and 
which utters its thought in conventional phrases or fash- 
ionable words. I knew nothing of the art of speaking 
by silence or of keeping silence by speech. And thus I 
lived on, — nursing within m3’self the fires that scorched 
me, gifted with a soul such as women desire to meet, a 
prey to emotions for which they are eager, possessing 
a vigor too often granted only to fools ; and yet it is 
nevertheless true that women have been traitorousl}" 
cruel to me. How often have I honestly admired the 
hero of some club as he boasted of his triumphs, never 
suspecting him of falsehood. I was wrong, no doubt, to 
expect a love that should be equal to mine ; to seek in the 
heart of a frivolous and light-minded woman, hungry" 
after luxury, drunken with vanity, that vast passion, 
that might}" ocean which beat tempestuously in my 
own breast. Oh ! to feel one’s self born to love, able to 
render a woman happy, and to have found none, not 
even a brave and noble Marceline nor some old mar- 
quise ; to carry treasures about with us, and to meet 
not so much as a child nor an inquisitive young girl 
ready to admire them ! — I often longed to kill myself 
in despair — ” 

“You are frightfully tragic to-night,” cried Emile. 

“ Well, let me curse my own life,” replied Raphael. 
“ If your friendship is not strong enough to listen to my 
elegy, if you cannot make me the sacrifice of a half- 
hour’s ennui, then sleep ! But don’t ask me again the 


100 


The Magic Skin, 


reason of my suicide which stands there, before me, and 
beckons me, and to which I yield. Before you judge a 
man you must know the secret of his thoughts, of his 
sorrows, of his feelings ; not to be willing to know more 
of his life than its material events, is to make it a chro- 
nology, the history of fools.” 

The bitter tone in which these words were said struck 
6mile so sharply that from that moment he gave his 
whole attention to his friend’s words, gazing at him in 
a half-besotted way. 

“ But,” continued the narrator, “ the light which time 
and events have now shed on these conditions give them 
another aspect. The order of things which I formerly 
considered a misfortune, did perhaps give birth to 
noble faculties in which later I took pride. The love 
of philosophic research, excessive study, delight in 
reading, which from the age of seven until I entered 
societ}^ were the constant occupation of my life, en- 
dowed me with a facile power by which, if you and my 
other friends are to be believed, I am able to give forth 
my ideas and to march in the van through the vast 
fields of human knowledge. The neglect to which I 
was accustomed, the habit of crushing down my feel- 
ings and living in the solitude of my own heart, invested 
me with powers of meditation and comparison. B3" not 
wasting my sensibilities in worldly excitements, which 
belittle the noblest soul and reduce it to the level of 
trifies, they became so concentrated as to be the perfected 
organ of a will more powerful than the impulses of pas- 
sion. Misunderstood as I was by women, I nevertheless 
observed and judged them with the sagacity of rejected 
love. I can now see that the sincerity of my nature 


The Magic Skin, 


101 


made me displeasing to them. Perhaps women prefer 
a small amount of hypocrisy. I, who am by turns, in 
the course of an hour, man and child, thinker and 
trifler, without prejudices and full of superstitions, 
sometimes a woman like themselves, — may they not 
have mistaken my natural simplicity for cynicism, and 
the purity of my thoughts for licentiousness? Science 
was weariness of mind to them ; poetic languor weak- 
ness. An extreme mobility of imagination, the mis- 
fortune of poets, made me seem perhaps incapable of 
love, without constancy of ideas, without vigor. Ap- 
parentl}' an idiot when I held my tongue, I seemed to 
alarm them when I tried to please ; and so all women 
condemned me. I accepted with tears of grief the 
judgment of the world, but the punishment bore fruit. 
I longed to avenge m3’self on society. I desired to 
possess the soul of all women by bringing to my feet 
all minds, and seeing all ej^es fixed upon me when a 
footman, opening the doors of salons, should announce 
my name. Many a time, from childhood up, had I 
struck my forehead, saying to m3*self, like Andre 
Chenier, ‘ There is something here ! ’ I believed that 
I felt within me a thought to utter, a S3’stem to estab- 
lish, a science to explain. 

“Oh, fimile! to-day I am barely twent3^-six years 
old ; I am doomed to die unknown without possessing the 
woman whose lover I dreamed of being, — let me there- 
fore tell 3'ou of my follies. Have we not all, more or 
less, taken our desires for realities? Ah, I want no 
man for a friend who has never crowned himself in his 
dreams, never built himself a pedestal, nor believed in 
a visionary mistress. I, myself, have been general, 


102 


The Magic Skin. 


emperor, Byron, even, — then nothing. After flitting, 
as it were, along the ridge-pole of human things, I per- 
ceived there were mountains above me, and difficulties 
to conquer. The egregious self-conceit which boiled 
within me, my sublime belief in a destiny, — which be- 
comes genius, perhaps, if a man does not let his soul be 
caught and torn by contact with worldly interests, just 
as a sheep leaves its fleece on the thorns of a thicket, — 
these things saved me. I resolved to cover myself with 
glory, and to work in silence for the woman I hoped to 
win. All women were summed up for me in that one 
woman, and I fancied I should behold her in the first 
I met ; then, finding a queen in all of them, I expected 
them, like queens who are forced to make advances to 
their lovers, to come to me, — to me, suflering, and poor, 
and timid, as I was. Ah ! for her who would thus have 
pitied me, what wealth of gratitude, not to speak of love, 
was in my heart ; I could have adored her all her life. 
Later, my observation told me cruel truths. 

“And so, dear Emile, I came near living eternally 
alone. Women are wont, I hardly know through what 
tendency of mind, to see chiefly the defects of a man 
of talent and the merit of fools ; they feel a sympathy 
with the good qualities of the foolish man, for those 
qualities perpetually flatter and conceal their own 
defects ; while a superior man offers them scarce!}^ 
enough enjoyment to make up for his actual imperfec- 
tions. Talent is certainly an intermittent fever ; and 
no woman wants to share its discomforts onlj" ; they all 
seek in their lovers something that satisfies their own 
vanity. They love themselves in us. A poor man, 
proud, artistic, endowed with the power of creation, is 


The Magic Skin. 


103 


also gifted with too aggressive an egotism. His exist- 
ence is a maelstrom of ideas and thoughts which in- 
volves all about him, and his mistress must follow in 
the whirl. How can a petted woman believe in the 
love of such a man? Would she ever seek him? Such 
a lover has no leisure for the pretty parodies of senti- 
ment, the triumph of false and callous souls, to which 
women attach so much importance. Time is all too 
short for his labors, — how can he waste it in bedizening 
and belittling himself for a ball-room ? I could give my 
life at a word, but I could not abase it to frivolity. 
There is something in the behavior of a man who dances 
attendance on a pale and lackadaisical woman which is 
repugnant to the true artist. The shows of love are not 
enough for a man who is poor and 3’et great ; he wants 
its devotion. The pretty creatures who pass their lives 
as lay figures for the fashions, or in trying on a shawl, 
have no devotion ; the}' exact it ; the}’ see nothing in love 
but the pleasure of commanding, — never that of obey- 
ing. The true wife in heart and in flesh and bone? 
will let herself be drawn hither and thither where h(» 
goes who is her life, her strength, her glory, her happi- 
ness. Superior men need women of oriental natures- 
whose sole thought is the study of their needs ; to them- 
a discord between their desires and the means of satis- 
fying them is suffering. 

“But I, who thought myself a man of genius, X 
was attracted by the women of fashion and frivolity' 
Brought up to ideas the reverse of those commonly 
accepted, thinking that I could mount the skies with- 
out a ladder, possessing treasures within me that had 
no vent, bristling with knowledge which overloaded my 


104 


The Magic Skin, 


memory, and was never fitly classified and therefore 
never assimilated ; without relations, without friends, 
alone in the midst of a hideous desert, a paved desert, 
a living, thinking, moving desert, where all was worse 
than inimical, was indilferent to me, — the resolution 
that I then took was natural, though wild. It brought 
with it something, I can hardly tell you what, that seemed 
impossible, and that consequent!}’ made a demand upon 
my courage. It was as though I plaj’ed a game with 
myself in which I was both the pla3"er and the stake. 
This was my plan : My eleven hundred and twelve 
francs were to sufiflce for m3’ livelihood for three years, 
and I gave myself that time to bring out a work which 
should attract public attention and give me either fame 
or money. I rejoiced in the thought that I should live 
on bread and milk like an Eg3’ptian hermit, plunged in 
the world of ideas and books, a sphere inaccessible in 
the midst of this tumultuous Paris, a sphere of labor 
and of silence, where, like a chr3’salis, I might build my- 
self a tomb from which to rise, new-born, in fame and 
brilliancy. I was about to risk death that I might live. 

reducing existence to its actual needs, I found that 
three hundred and sixt3’-five francs a 3’ear would suffice 
to sustain life. That meagre sum did actuall}’ support me 
so long as I subjected myself to cloistral discipline — ” 

“ Impossible ! ” cried Emile. 

“ I lived three 3^ears in that way,” replied Raphael, 
with a sort of pride. “Count it up. Three sous for 
bread, two sous for milk, three sous for pork, kept me 
from dying of hunger, and brought m3’ mind to a con- 
dition of singular lucidity. I have studied, as 3’ou 
know, the remarkable effects produced by diet on the 


The Magic Skin, 


105 


Imagination. My lodging cost me three sous a day, 
I burned three sous’ worth of oil a night, I took care oi 
my own room, I wore flannel shirts to save two sous a 
day in washing. I kept myself warm with coal, whose 
cost divided among the days of the 3 ear was only two 
sous for each daj". I had clothes and linen and foot- 
gear enough for three 3'ears, but I dressed only when I 
went to certain public lectures, and to the libraries. 
These expenses amounted to eighteen sous a daj^ and 
I still had two sous daily for unexpected wants. I 
remember that I never during those three 3’ears crossed 
the pont des Arts, nor did I ever buy any water; I 
fetched all I wanted from the fountain in the place 
Saint-Michel, at the corner of the rue des Gres. Oh ! 
I bore my poverty proudly. A man who foresees a 
splendid future goes through a period of penury" like an 
innocent man on his way to the scaffold ; he feels no 
shame. I would not allow myself to dread illness. 
Like Aquilina, I faced the hospital without fear. But 
I never for a moment doubted m3" good health. Be- 
sides, it is only the hopeless who lie down to die. I 
cut m3" own hair, until the moment when an angel of 
love or of goodness — 

“But I will not anticipate. What I want 3"Ou to 
know, dear friend, is that, in default of a mistress, 
I lived with a great thought, with a dream, with a lie 
which we all begin b3" believing, more or less. To-day 
I laugh at myself, — (hai myself, possibly saintl3" and 
sublime, which no longer exists. Society, the world, 
our manners and customs and morals seen near by, 
have shown me the dangers of my innocent belief, and 
the needless waste of my fervent labors. Such equip- 


106 


The Magic Skin, 


ments are worse than useless to the ambitious; light 
should be the baggage of him who pursues fortune. 
It is a fault of superior men that they spend their 
youthful years in making themselves worthy of favor. 
While the poor man heaps up treasures of his own 
strength and of science, to bear the strain of a power 
that escapes him, mere schemers, rich in words, and 
wanting in ideas, go and come, electrify fools, and win 
the confidence of ninnies ; the one studies, the others 
move about ; the one is modest, the others bold ; the 
man of genius subdues his pride, the schemer fiaunts 
his and inevitably succeeds. Men in power are so 
anxious to find merit ready-made, and a brazen show 
of intellect, that it is childish in a true man of sci- 
ence to hope for human rewards. I certainl3" am not 
trying to paraphrase the common doctrines about vir- 
tue, — that Song of Songs forever sung by neglected 
genius. I simply seek to draw a just conclusion from 
the frequent successes obtained by mediocre men. 
Alas ! study is so motherly and kind that it seems 
almost a crime to ask her for other than the pure and 
gentle joys with which she nourishes her children. 

“ I remember how often I gayly dipped my bread into 
my milk, sitting near my window to breathe the air, 
and letting my eyes wander over a landscape of brown, 
gray, and red roofs, some of slate, some of tiles, cov- 
ered with mosses gray or green. If at first this 
outlook seemed to me monotonous, I soon discovered 
singular beauties in it. Sometimes, after dark, bright 
gleams of light, escaping from a half-closed blind, 
shaded and animated the dark depths of this original 
landscape, or the pale gleam of the street-lamps sent 


The Magic Skin. 


107 


up yellow reflections through the fog, faintly connecting 
the streets with these undulating crowded roofs, like 
an ocean of stationary waves. Sometimes strange 
figures made their appearance in the middle of this 
dull desert ; among the flowers of a hanging garden 
I could see the sharp, hooked profile of an old woman, 
watering her nasturtiums ; or, framed by a weather- 
beaten dormer-window, a young girl stood dressing 
and thinking herself alone, while I could just perceive 
a handsome forehead, and the long coils of hair held 
up by a pretty arm. Here and there in the gutters 
were a few stray plants, poor weeds soon scattered by 
the wind. I studied the mosses when their colors 
brightened, after a rain, from the dry brown velvet with 
var3dng reflections into which the sun had dried them. 
The fugitive and poetic effects of the daylight, the 
gloom of the mists, the sudden sparkling of the sun, 
the silence and magic of the night, the mysteries of 
the dawn, the smoke of the various chimney's, each 
and all of the changes of this weird landscape were 
familiar and interesting to me. I loved my imprison- 
ment ; it was voluntary. These prairies of undulating 
roofs which covered inhabited abysses, suited my soul 
and harmonized with my thoughts. It is wearisome 
to encounter the world of social life when we descend 
from the celestial heights whither scientific meditations 
have led us ; and for this reason I have always thor- 
oughty understood the bareness of monasteries. 

When I had full}" resolved to follow my new plan of 
life, I looked for a lodging in the most deserted parts 
of Paris. One evening, returning from the Estrapade, 
I walked through the rue des Cordiers on my way home 


108 


The Magic Skin, 


kt the angle of the rue de Cluny I saw a little girl 
about fourteen years of age, who was placing at battle- 
dore with a number of companions, while their fun and 
laughter amused the neighbors. The weather was fine, 
the evening warm, and it was the latter part of Novem- 
ber. Women were gossiping from door to door, as 
though they were in some provincial town on a fete-day. 
I took notice of the oung girl, whose face was charmingly 
expressive, and her figure a study for a painter. The 
whole scene was delightful. I looked about to discover 
the reason of this simple-hearted good-humor in the 
middle of Paris ; seeing that the street was not a 
thoroughfare, I concluded that few persons entered it. 
Recollecting that Jean- Jacques Rousseau once lived 
there, I sought and found the Hotel Saint-Quentin 
whose dilapidated appearance encouraged me to hope 
for cheap quarters, and I entered it. In the first low- 
ceilinged room were the time-honored brass candle- 
sticks, filled with common tallow candles, methodically 
placed above a row of keys. I was struck with the 
cleanliness of this room, usually ill-kept in other such 
inns, but which here reminded me of a genre picture. 
The blue bed, the utensils, the furniture, all had a cer- 
tain air of social coquetr}". The mistress of the house, 
a woman of forty, whose face betrayed sorrows and 
whose eyes seemed dulled b}’ tears, came ur'*' to me ; 
I humbly told her the sum I was able to ^^ay, and 
without showing surprise she took a ke}' from the line 
of hooks and preceded me to the garret, where she 
showed me a room that looked out over the roofs and 
down into the courts of the neighboring houses, across 
which clothes-lines loaded with linen were stretched 


The Magic Skin. 


109 


from window to window. Nothing could be more 
odious than this room ; its dirty yellow walls, redo- 
lent of poverty, seemed to call aloud for its penniless 
student. The roof sloped on one side, and the dis- 
jointed tiles left chinks through which the daylight 
made its way. There was room for a bed, a table, a 
few chairs, and I could manage to squeeze my piano 
into a sharp angle of the roof. This cell, worthy of the 
Leads of Venice, was unfurnished, for the mistress of 
the house was too poor to fit it up, and had therefore 
never let it ; but having retained a few articles for my 
own personal use from the sale of m3" furniture, I soon 
came to terms with my hostess, and took possession of 
m3" quarters on the following day. 

“ I lived nearly three years in this sk3" sepulchre, 
working night and da3" without relaxation, but with such 
delight that study seemed to me the noblest occupation, 
the happiest solution of human life. In the calm, the 
silence necessary to a student there is something not 
to be described, as sweet and intoxicating as love. 
The exercise of thought, the searching out of ideas, the 
tranquil meditations of science, bring ineflTable, inde- 
scribable delights, — like all else that appertains to 
intellect, whose phenomena are invisible to our exterior 
senses. And yet we are forced to express the mysteries 
of the spirit under some form of material comparison. 
The delight of swimming in a pure lake, alone, among 
rocks and woods and flower3" shores, caressed by a 
warm breeze, ma3" give to some a faint conception of 
the happiness I felt as my soul bathed in the floods 
of a mysterious light, as I listened to the awful and 
confused voices of inspiration, and as, from some 


no 


The Magic Skin. 


unknown source, the waters rippled in my palpitating 
brain. To see an idea dawn upon the field of human 
apprehension, rising like the sun at daybreak, or better 
still, growing like a child, attaining puberty, slowly 
making itself virile, — ah ! that is a higher joy than all 
other terrestrial joys ; it is, in fact, a divine pleasure. 
Study invests all things about us with a sort of magic. 
The rickety table at which I wrote, with its brown 
sheepskin cover, my piano, my bed, my armchair, the 
fantastic lines of the wall-paper, my furniture, — all these 
things had life for me ; the}' were my humble friends, 
the silent sharers of my destiny. Many a time have I 
breathed out to them my soul. Often, as my eyes 
rested on a defaced moulding, has my mind caught 
some new argument, some striking proof of the theory 
I was establishing, or certain words which happily de- 
veloped (or so it seemed to me) thoughts that could 
scarcely be interpreted. By dint of gazing at the 
objects which surrounded me, each came to have its 
individual countenance and character, each spoke to 
me ; if the sun, setting below the roofs, threw a furtive 
ray across my narrow window they grew rosy, or paled, 
or shone, or grieved, or made merry, with ever new 
effects and surprises. The trifling incidents of a life of 
solitude, which pass unnoticed among the busy occupa- 
tions of society, are the consolation of prisoners. Was 
I not the captive of an idea, imprisoned in a theory, 
yet supported and sustained by the beckoning nod of 
fame? At each conquered difficulty I kissed the soft 
hands of the rich and elegant woman with the beautiful 
eyes who, methought, would some day caress my hair 
and whisper tenderly, ‘ How you have suffered ! * 


The Magic Skin, 


111 


‘ ‘ I had undertaken two great works. A comedy which 
might bring me swift renown, money, and entrance 
into the world, where I wished to reappear with the 
regal rights of genius. You all saw in that first master- 
piece the initial blunder of a young man just out of 
college, a silly effort' of youth. Those jokes cut the 
wings of my soaring illusions, and they have never 
flown since. You, alone, dear Emile, soothed the 
wound which others then made in my heart. You 
alone have appreciated my ‘ Theory of the Will,* — that 
long work for which I studied oriental languages, an- 
atomy, and physiology, and to which I devoted nearly 
all my time. That work, if I am not mistaken, will 
complete the labors of Mesmer, Lavater, Gall, and 
Bichat, by opening a new road to human science. 

“ At this point, my grand, my noble life stopped short ; 
here ended those consecrated days, that silk-worm’s 
toil unknown to the world, whose sole recompense is 
perhaps in the toil itself. From the day I first exer- 
cised my reason to that on which I ended my ‘ Theory ’ 
I observed, learned, wrote, and read without intermis- 
sion ; my life was one long task. Loving oriental 
indolence, cherishing revery, pleasure-loving by nature, 
I nevertheless denied m3’self every Parisian enjo3’ment. 
Gourmand by inclination, I was ascetic in practice ; lik- 
ing travel either by land or sea, wishing to visit foreign 
countries, finding amusement, like a child, in skipping 
stones upon the water, I remained seated in my chair, 
pen in hand ; read}" and desirous of speech, I listened 
silently to the professors in the lecture-room of the 
Bibliotheque and the Museum ; I slept upon my solitary 
pallet like a Benedictine, and 3"et woman was my 


112 


The Magic Skin. 


di'eam, my vision, — a vision that I strove to caress as 
it eluded me. My life was indeed a cruel antithesis, a 
perpetual untruth. 

“ And then, — see what men are ! — sometimes my 
natural desires revived like a flame long smothered. 
By a mirage, as it were, or possessed by that delirium 
of green fields, I, deprived of all the mistresses that I 
coveted, poor and lonely in my artist’s garret, I fancied 
myself surrounded with delightful women. I drove 
through the streets of Paris on the soft cushions of a 
brilliant equipage ! I was eaten up b}- vice, plunged in 
excesses, wishing all and obtaining all ; drunk on fasting, 
like Saint Anthony when tempted. Sleep happily ex- 
tinguished such maddening visions, and on the morrow 
science recalled me with a smile, and to her I was ever 
faithful. I imagine that women, thought virtuous, must 
often be a prey to these wild tempests of passions and 
desires which rise up in us despite ourselves. Such 
dreams are not without charm ; they are like those 
evening talks by the fireside in which we wander to dis- 
tant lands. But what becomes of virtue during such 
excursions, where thought oversprings all barriers ? 

‘‘ During the first ten months of my seclusion I led the 
solitary and poverty-stricken life I have now depicted. 
Every morning I went out early and unseen, to buy my 
provisions for the day ; I cleaned and arranged my 
room ; I was servant and master both, and proudh^ I 
Diogenized. By the end of that time, during which my 
landlady and her daughter watched my behavior and 
principles, examined into my personal life and under- 
stood my poverty (perhaps because they themselves were 
unfortunate), there had come to be strong ties between 


The Magic Skin. 


113 


ns. Pauline, the charming child whose artless grace and 
innocence had first led me to the house, did me many 
services which it was impossible to refuse. All unfor- 
tunate beings are sisters ; they speak the same language, 
feel the same generosity, — the generosity of those who, 
having nothing, are prodigal of feeling and give them- 
selves and their time. Little by little, Pauline took 
control of my room and waited on me ; to which her 
mother made no objection. I saw the mother herself 
mending m 3 " linen and blushing when discovered in 
that charitable occupation. Becoming thus in spite of 
myself their protege, I accepted their kindness. To 
understand this relation we must know the transports 
of mental toil, the tyranny of ideas, the instinctive re- 
pugnance foi- the petty details of material life, which 
possess a man of genius. How could I resist the deli- 
cate attention with which Pauline, stepping softly, 
placed m 3 ’ frugal food beside me, when she noticed that I 
had eaten nothing for seven or eight hours? With the 
grace of a woman and the artlessness of a child, she 
would smile with a finger on her lips, as if to tell me 
that I must not notice her. She was Ariel gliding like 
a sylph beneath m 3 " roof and foreseeing my needs. 

“ One evening Pauline with simple sincerity told me 
their histor 3 ". Her father had commanded a squadron 
of the grenadiers of the Imperial Guard. He was taken 
prisoner b 3 " Cossacks at the passage of the Beresina. 
Later, when Napoleon proposed to exchange him, the 
Russian authorities searched Siberia in vain ; it was 
said by other prisoners that he had escaped to India. 
From that time Madame Gaudin, m 3 " landlady, had 
heard nothing of her husband. The disasters of 1814 

8 


114 


The Magic Skin. 


and 1815 occurred ; alone, without resources, she deter- 
mined to keep a lodging-house for the support of her- 
self and daughter. The hope of recovering her husband 
never left her. Her cruellest suffering came from the 
necessit}^ of leaving Pauline without education, — her 
Pauline, the goddaughter of the Princesse Borghese, 
now deprived of all the advantages promised by her 
imperial protectress. When Madame Gaudin confided 
to me this bitter grief, which was literally killing her, 
she said in heartrending tones : — 

“ ‘ I would gladly give Gaudin’s rank as Baron of the 
Empire and our rights in the endowment of Witzchnau, 
if Pauline could be educated at Saint-Denis.’ 

“ As she spoke a thought made me quiver ; to repay 
the care these two good women bestowed upon me I 
ofifered to teach Pauline. The simplicity with which 
they received the proposal was equal to that which dic- 
tated it. I thus gained hours of recreation. The little 
girl had charming qualities ; she learned with ease, and 
she soon excelled me on the piano. Being encouraged 
to think aloud when she was with me, she displayed a 
thousand little prettinesses of a heart that opened to 
life like the petals of a fiower gently unclosing to the 
sun. She listened to what I said composedly and with 
pleasure ; fixing upon me her soft, velvety, black eyes, 
which seemed to smile, she repeated her lessons in a 
sweet, caressing voice, and showed a childish jo}" when 
I was satisfied with her. Her mother, growing daily 
more and more anxious to preserve her from all danger, 
and to let the graces of her nature grow and develop, 
was pleased to see her given up to stud}'. My piano 
was the only one she could use, and she took advantage 


The Magic Skin, 


115 


of my absences to practise upon it. When I returned I 
always found her in my room, in the humblest of dresses, 
and 3^et at every movement of her supple bod^' the charms 
of her figure could be seen beneath the coarse material. 
Like the heroine of ‘ The Ass’s Skin,’ she had a tin}’ 
foot in a rough shoe. But all these prett}" treasures, this 
wealth of girlish charm, this luxury of beauty was lost 
upon me. I bade m^^self regard her as a sister, and I 
should have shrunk with horror from betraying her 
mother’s confidence. I admired the charming child 
like a picture, like the portrait of some lost mistress. 
She was my child, m3’ statue ; I was another P3’gmalion, 
seeking to make a living, blooming, thinking, speaking 
virgin into marble. I was very severe with her, but 
the more I made her feel my authority, the gentler and 
more submissive she grew. A sense of honor strength- 
ened and maintained m3’ reserve and self-control. To 
betray a woman and to become bankrupt have alwa3’s 
seemed to me one and the same thing. To love a young 
girl, or let one’s self be loved b3’ her, constitutes a con- 
tract whose conditions should be clearly understood. 
We ma3’ abandon the women who sell themselves, but 
never the 3’oung girl who gives her love, for she is ig- 
norant of the extent of her sacrifice. I might have 
married Pauline, but it would have been madness. I 
should have delivered over that gentle virgin soul to 
unutterable misery. My poverty spoke with its own 
egotistical language, and placed its iron hand forever 
between her soul and mine. 

“ I confess to my shame that I have no conception of 
love in poverty. It ma3" be a moral vitiation in me, due 
to the human malady called civilization, but a woman, 


116 


The Magic Skin. 


be she as beautiful as Helen of Tro}" or Homer’s Gala» 
tea, has no power over my senses if she is squalid. 
Hail to the love in silks and satins, surrounded by those 
marvels of luxury that adorn it so well, for it is itself, 
perhaps, a luxuiy. I like to crumple in fancy the crisp, 
fresh dresses, to crush the flowers, and bury a devas- 
tating hand among the elegantly arranged tresses of a 
perfumed head. Glowing eyes, hiding behind a veil of 
lace, yet piercing it as flame tears through the smoke 
of a cannon, ofler me mysterious delights. My love 
longs for silken ladders to scale in silence on winter 
nights. What happiness to enter, covered with snow, a 
lighted and perfumed chamber, tapestried with painted 
silks, and to And there a woman covered like ourselves 
with snow, — for how else shall we call those alluring 
veils of muslin, through which she is vaguel}' seen like 
an angel coming through a cloud? But my desires are 
various ; I ask for timid happiness, and for bold secu- 
rity ; moreover, I wish to meet my mj^sterious ideal in 
the world, dazzling, yet virtuous, the centre of homage, 
robed in laces, adorned with diamonds, giving laws to 
social life ; so high in rank, and so imposing, that none 
shall dare to seek her love. From the midst of such 
courtly reverence she should fling me a side-glance, a 
glance that made these adventitious charms of no ac- 
count, a glance in which she sacrificed the world and 
other men to me. How often have I not felt myself a 
fool to love a few yards of blonde, or velvet, or fine 
linen, the art of a hairdresser, carriages, titles, heraldic 
blazons painted on glass or manufactured by a jew- 
eller, — in short, all that is most artificial and least 
womanly in woman. I ridiculed myself, I reasoned 


The Magic Skin. 


117 


with myself, but all in vain. The refined smile of a 
high-bred woman, the distinction of her manners, her 
respect for her own person, enchant me ; the very bar- 
rier that she thus puts between herself and the world 
flatters ever}^ vanity within me, and is the half of love. 
Envied for the possession of such a woman, m}^ felicity 
would have a higher flavor. doing nothing that 
other women do, neither moving nor living as they 
do, wrapped in a mantle that they can never wear, 
shedding a perfume of her own about her, m3’ mistress 
would seem to me more mine ; the farther she were 
removed from earth, even in all that makes love earthl}’, 
the more beautiful she would be to m3’ eyes. Happily, 
France has been without a queen for twenty 3’ears, or 
I should have loved the queen. But to have the wa3’s 
of a princess, a woman must needs be rich. 

“In presence of such romantic fancies what was Pau- 
line? Could she give me the love that kills, that forces 
into play all human faculties, that costs us life itself? 
Who dies for the girls who give themselves, poor 
things? I have never been able to overcome such 
feelings as these, nor the poetic reveries they excite. 
I was born for an impossible love, and fate has willed 
that I should meet with something far beyond my 
wishes. Many a time I have fancied Pauline’s little 
feet encased in satin slippers, her round waist, slender 
as a young poplar- tree, imprisoned in a gauzy robe, a 
lace scarf thrown about her neck and bosom, as I led 
her down the carpeted stairs of a mansion to the car- 
riage at the door. I should have adored her thus. I 
gave her, in fanc3’, a pride she never had ; I robbed 
her of her virtues, her artless grace, her candid smile, 


118 


The Magic Skin. 


the simplicity of her nature ; I plunged her into the 
Styx of our social vices ; I hardened her heart that she 
might bear the burden of our sins, and become the 
silly puppet of our salons, the languid creature who 
lies in bed all day, and revives by night at the dawn 
of a blaze of lamps. Pauline was all freshness, all feel- 
ing, but I could onlj’ care for her if cold and hard. 

“ In the latter days of my madness I looked back to 
Pauline as we do to some memory of our childhood. 
More than once the recollection has deeply moved me ; 
I recalled delightful moments ; once more I saw her 
seated by my table with her sewing, — silent, tranquil, 
composed, with faint lights from my garret window 
falling in silvery reflections upon her ebon hair ; I heard 
her girlish laughter, her voice, with its rich inflections 
warbling the pretty ballads she composed with ease. 
Often my Pauline grew transfigured as she sang or 
played, and at such times her face bore a striking 
resemblance to the noble head by which Carlo Dolci 
has represented Italy. My bitter memory flings that 
innocent girl like a remorse across the excesses of my 
life ; she stands before me the image of womanhood 
and virtue. But let us leave her to her destiny. How- 
ever wretched that may be, I have at least sheltered her 
from the awful storms of my existence, and refrained 
from dragging her to the depths of my own hell. 

“ Until last winter my life was the calm and studious 
life I have tried to picture to you. Early in December, 
1829, I met Eugene de Rastignac, who in spite of my 
shabby clothes put his arm in mine, and inquired into 
m3" condition with brotherlj" interest. Won b}" those 
charming manners of his, I told him, briefly, about my 


119 


The Magic Skin. 

life and my hopes ; he laughed, and declared I was a 
man of genius and a fool. His Gascon voice, his 
knowledge of the world, his opulent style of living, 
which he owes to his wits, have an irresistible power 
over me. He declared I should die in a hospital, 
ignored as an imbecile, pictured ray funeral, and 
buried me in a pauper’s grave. Then he began to 
expound charlatanism ; with the good-natured warmth 
that makes him so attractive, he insisted that all men 
of genius are humbugs. He declared I had one sense 
lacking, and risked death if I persisted in staying alone 
in the rue des Cordiers ; he urged me to return to 
society, and make my name familiar in people’s mouths, 
and get rid of the humble monsieur., which was ver}’^ 
unbecoming to a great man during his lifetime. 

“ ‘ Idiots call that kind of life time-serving,’ he cried ; 
‘moral folks proscribe it as dissipated. Never mind about 
men and their opinions, look at results. Here you are, 
toiling incessant!}’, yet you ’ll never accomplish anything. 
Now I am capable of everything and good at nothing, 
lazy as a lobster, but I succeed. I spread myself about, 
I push, and society makes room for me ; I brag, and it 
believes me ; I make debts, and other people pay them. 
Dissipation, my dear fellow, is a political system. The 
life of a man who is employed in squandering his means 
is unmistakably a speculation ; he invests his capital 
in friends, in pleasures, in acquiring connections and 
influence. A merchant risks a million ; for twenty 
years he neither sleeps nor drinks nor amuses himself. 
He broods over his million, he trots it from place to 
place all over Europe ; he is worried to death ; all the 
devils are after it; then comes failure, liquidation (I’ve 


120 


The Magic Shin, 


seen it many a time), and there he is, without a penny, 
without a name, without a friend. The spendthrift, on 
the other hand, does amuse himself ; he knows how to 
race his horse. If, by chance, he loses his capital, he 
can get himself appointed receiver-general, secretary to 
a ministry, ambassador, — or he marries. He is sure to 
have friends, reputation, and plenty of money. Know- 
ing the secret springs of society, he works them to his 
profit. Is that S3’stem logical, or am I a fool? Is nT 
that the moral of the comedy that is pla^’ed every day 
in the world? Your work is just finished, you say,* 
resumed Rastignac after a pause ; ‘ you *ve got immense 
talent. Well, what of it? you are now just at the point 
where I started. Make your success personally for 
yourself, it is the surest way. Set up friendships and 
intimacies at the clubs and with cliques ; please those 
who can trumpet you along. I wish to do m3" share 
toward your success ; I ’ll be the jeweller to set the 
diamonds in 3"our crown. And for a beginning,’ he 
added, ‘ come to my rooms to-morrow night. I will 
take 3"OU to a house where you will find all Paris, our 
Paris, the Paris of beauties, celebrities, and millionnaires, 
men who talk gold like Chrysostom. When such people 
adopt a book that book becomes the fashion ; if it is 
really good they have given the brevet of genius without 
knowing it. If you have any mother-wit in you, my 
dear fellow, you can yourself make the fortune of your 
theory by thoroughly understanding the theory of for- 
tune. To-morrow night you shall see the beautiful Com- 
tesse Fedora, the reigning fashion.’ 

“ ‘ I never heard of her.’ 

“ ‘ You ’re a Caffre,’ said Rastignac, laughing. ‘ Not 


The Magic Skin. 


121 


know Fedora ! — a marriageable 'woman, who has an 
income of eight}’ thousand francs, but won’t take any 
man, or at least whom no man takes ; a species of 
female problem ; a Parisian who is half-Russian, a Rus- 
sian half- Parisian ; a woman who is a living edition of 
romantic productions that never get published ; the most 
beautiful woman in Paris, and the most courteous. You 
are not even a Caflre, you are the missing link between 
a Catfre and the animal creation. Adieu until to- 
morrow.’ 

“ He turned on his heel and disappeared without wait- 
ing for an answer, seeming not to admit that a reason- 
able man could refuse an introduction to Fedora. How 
can we explain the fascination of a name? Fedora 
pursued me like an evil thought with which we strive 
to compromise. A voice within me said, ‘ Thou wilt 
go to Fedora.’ In vain I combated that voice and told 
it that it lied ; it crushed m3’ arguments with that 
name, Fedora. That name, that woman, were the}’ the 
symbol of my desires, the key-note of my life? The 
name rang with the artificial poetry of society, with the 
fetes of the great world of Paris and the glitter of all 
vanities. The woman appeared to me as in a vision, 
embodying those problems of passion over which I 
brooded. Perhaps it was neither the woman nor the 
name, but my vices which sprang erect in my mind to 
tempt me anew. The Comtesse Fedora, rich and with- 
out a lover, resisting Parisian seductions, was she not 
the incarnation of my hopes and visions ? I had created 
a woman ; my thought had formed her ; I had dreamed 
her, — and she was here. 

“ During the night I could not sleep ; I became her 


122 


The Magic Skin, 


lover. A few hours were a lifetime, — a lifetime of love ; 
I tasted all its fruitful and passionate delights. On the 
morrow, unable to bear the suspense of waiting till 
evening, I went out and hired a novel and spent the 
day in reading it, thus endeavoring not to think and not 
to measure the slow passage of time. While I read, 
that name, Fedora, echoed within me like a sound heard 
in the far distance which does not disturb us but is, 
nevertheless, in our ears. Fortunately I owned a black 
coat and a white waistcoat in good condition. Of all my 
little store there still remained some thirt}^ francs which 
I had dispersed about in my various drawers and among 
my clothes, so as to put between each five-franc piece 
and some stray fancy the thorny barrier of search and 
the trouble of circumnavigating my room. While I was 
dressing I pursued this scattered wealth through an 
ocean of paper. gloves and a cab devoured a month’s 
living. Alas ! we are never without money for our 
whims ; we discuss no costs but those of necessary or 
useful things. We carelessly" fiing away our gold on a 
ballet-girl, and haggle over a bill with a laborer whose 
family is starving. How many men wearing a hundred- 
franc coat, and a diamond in the knob of their cane, 
dine for twenty^-five sous ! Ah ! we seldom think the 
pleasures of vanity too dear. 

“ Rastignac, faithful to our appointment, smiled at my 
metamorphose and made fun of it ; however, he gave 
me, as we went along, some charitable advice as to the 
manner in which I had best behave with the countess. 
He told me she was avaricious, vain, and distrustful ; 
but good-humoredly distrustful, vain with simplicity, 
and miserly with ostentation. 


The Magic Skin. 


128 


“ ‘ You know how I am situated,’ he said, ‘ and how 
much I should lose b}* changing loves. My observation 
of Fedora is disinterested and cool ; therefore m3’ judg- 
ment is worth something. I present 3’ou to her with a 
view of making 3"our fortune ; take care what 3’ou sa3’ 
to her, for she has a cruel memor3’, and is clever enough 
to drive a diplomatist craz3’ ; she can guess the ver3’ 
instant when he begins to tell the truth. Between our- 
selves, I doubt if her marriage was ever recognized by 
the emperor, for the Russian ambassador laughed when 
I asked him about her. He does not receive her at 
the embassy, and bows very coldl3’ when the}’ meet in 
the Bois. Nevertheless, she belongs in Madame de 
Serizy’s set, and visits Madame de Nucingen and 
Madame de Restaud. In France, at any rate, her repu- 
tation is intact. The Duchesse de Carigliano, the most 
high-necked of all that Bonapartist clique, often spends 
a few days with her at her countr3^-house. Several 
young dandies and the son of a peer offer their names 
in exchange for her money ; but she politel}’ refuses 
them. Perhaps her love can go no lower than a count. 
You are a marquis ; therefore push on if she pleases 
\’ou. Now that ’s what I call giving advice.’ 

“ The tone in which all this was said made me fancy 
that Rastignac was trying to pique my curiosity, so 
that my impromptu passion had reached a crisis b}’ the 
time we entered a hall decorated with flowers. As we 
went up the wide, carpeted stairs, where I noticed many 
signs of English comfort, my heart beat violently. I 
blushed at myself; I belied my birth, my feelings, my 
pride; I was idiotically bourgeois in my sensations. 
Alas, I came from a garret where I had spent three 


124 


The Magic Skin, 

poverty-stricken years without reallj’ learning to put the 
treasures of intellectual life above the baubles of an 
artificial existence. 

“As I entered I saw a woman about twent}’- two years 
of age, of medium height, dressed in white, surrounded 
by a circle of men, extended rather than seated in a 
reclining chair, and holding in her hand a feather screen. 
When she observed Rastignac, she rose and came toward 
us with a gracious smile, and paid me a conventional 
compliment in a melodious voice. Eugene gave her the 
idea that I was a man of talent, and his hearty Gascon 
emphasis procured me a cordial reception. I was made 
the object of attentions which confused me, but Rastignac 
happily covered my embarrassment b}- an allusion to my 
modesty. There I met scholars, men of letters, former 
ministers, and peers of France. The conversation re- 
sumed the course our entrance had interrupted, and by 
degrees, feeling that I had a reputation to sustain, I 
grew more confident ; then, without presuming on the 
right of speech which was granted to me, I tried to sum 
up the various points of the discussion with remarks 
that were more or less thoughtful, incisive, or witty. 
I made some sensation. For the thousandth time in 
his life Rastignac was prophetic. When the rooms were 
sufficient!}’ well filled so that we could freely move 
about, he gave me his arm, and we walked through the 
apartments. 

“ ‘ Don’t seem too enchanted with the princess,’ he 
said, ‘ or she will guess the motive of your visit.’ 

“ The salons were furnished with exquisite taste. I 
noticed rare pictures. Each room had a character of 
its own, after the fashion of opulent English mansions ; 


The Magic Skin. 


125 


the silken hangings, the ornaments, the shapes of the 
furniture, in fact the slightest decoration harmonized 
with a leading thought. In a Gothic boudoir the doors 
were concealed behind tapestried curtains ; the border- 
ing of the stuffs, the clock, the pattern of the carpet, 
w^ere all Gothic ; the ceiling, formed of cross-beams 
carved out of dark wood, showed a number of com- 
partments painted with grace and originality ; the 
panelling of the wainscots was artistic ; nothing injured 
the general effect of this charming decoration, which 
was even increased b3^ the costly’ colored glass of the 
windows. I was next astonished at the sight of a little 
modern salon, where some artist had exhausted our na- 
tional decorative science, — at once so delicate, so fresh, 
so elegant, without brillianc}^ and sober in gilding. It 
was vague and amorous like a German ballad, a true 
retreat for a passion of 1827, perfumed with baskets of 
the choicest plants. Beyond this room was a gilded 
salon of the time of Louis XIV., which produced, b}- 
its contrast with our modern taste, a curious but agree- 
able effect. 

“‘You will be well lodged,’ said Raslignac, with a 
smile, in which there was a tinge of irony. ‘ Is n’t this 
fascinating?’ he added, sitting down. Suddenly’ he 
rose, took me b}’ the arm, and drew me into a bedroom, 
where, beneath a canop}^ of muslin and white moire, 
was a bed fainth^ lighted b^^ a hanging lamp, — the bed 
of a fair}’ wedded to a genie. 

“ ‘ Don’t you think there is a positive indecency, in- 
solence, and coquetiy,’ he exclaimed in a low voice, 
‘ in exhibiting this throne of love ! To love no one, 
and then allow everybody to leave his card here ! If I 


126 


The Magic Skin, 


were free, 1 would like to bring that woman weeping and 
submissive to her knees ! ’ 

“ ‘ Are you sure of her virtue? * 

“ ‘ The boldest men of the world, and the most expe- 
rienced, admit that they have failed in winning her; 
they also declare that they still love her, and are now 
her devoted friends. The woman is an enigma ! ’ 

“ These words excited me to a sort of intoxication ; 1 
was jealous of the past. Returning hastily toward the 
countess, whom I had left in the salon, I found her in 
the Gothic boudoir. She greeted me wdth a smile, 
asked me to sit by her, and questioned me on my lit- 
erary work, seeming to take a keen interest in my an- 
swers, — especially when I explained m}^ theor^^ which 
I did half in jest instead of employing the terms of a 
professor and explaining it dogmatically. She was 
much amused by the idea that the human will is a 
material force like that of steam ; that nothing in the 
moral world can resist its power if a man accustoms 
himself to concentrate it, to hold it in hand, and to 
direct the propulsion of this fluid mass upon the con- 
sciousness of other men ; that a man possessing this 
power could modify all things relating to humanity as 
he pleased, even the laws of nature. Fedora’s objec- 
tions to my theory proved her to possess a certain 
keenness of intellect. I took delight in flattering her 
with explanations, while I destroyed her feminine ar- 
guments with a word, drawing her attention to a fact 
of daily life, namely, sleep, — apparently the most 
common of all facts, yet an insoluble problem for the 
man of science. This piqued her curiosity. She even 
remained silent while I told her that ideas were organ- 


127 


The Magic Skin. 

ized and perfected beings living in a world invisible, — 
citing in proof thereof that the thoughts of Descartes, 
Diderot, and Napoleon had led, and were still leading, 
an epoch. I had the honor to amuse her, and she left 
me with an invitation to visit her again ; in the lan- 
guage of courts, she gave me the grandes entrees. 

“ Whether it were that I took the formulas of polite- 
ness for words of real meaning, or that Fedora thought 
me a man of rising fame and wished to add to her 
menagerie of savants, it is certain that I fancied I 
pleased her. I called up all my physiological knowl- 
edge and mj’ previous studies of womanhood, to help 
me in examining this singular person and her manners, 
for the rest of the evening. Hidden in the recess of 
a window, I pried into her thoughts as expressed by 
her bearing ; I studied her b3--play as mistress of the 
house, — passing to and fro, sitting down, conversing, 
calling to one man, questioning another, and leaning, 
as she listened, against the lintel of a door. I noticed 
a soft and breez}’ motion in her walk, an undulation of 
her graceful dress, a potent, seductive charm, which 
made me suddenly" incredulous of her virtue. Though 
Fedora now denied herself to love, she must once have 
been a passionate woman ; the signs of it were in her 
choice of attitudes. She leaned against the panelling 
coquettishl^’, like a woman about to fall, yet ready to 
if some too ardent look affrighted her. Her arms 
were lightl}^ crossed ; she seemed to breathe-in words, 
to hear and welcome them with her eyes, while her 
whole person exhaled sentiment. The fresh, red lips 
were defined upon a skin of dazzling whiteness. Her 
brown hair brought out clearly the orange tints of her 


128 


The Magic Skin, 


eyes, which were rayed or veined like a Florentine 
agate, — seeming to add by their expression a subtile 
charm to her speech. The lines of the bust and waist 
had a grace that was all their own. A rival might 
have called the heav}^ eyebrows, which nearly met 
each other, hard ; or condemned the light down which 
defined the outlines of the face. To my eyes, passion 
was imprinted everywhere. Love was written on the 
Italian eyelids, on the fine shoulders, worthy of the 
Venus of Milo, on each feature of her face, on the un- 
der lip, which was a shade too heav3% and slightly 
shadowed. She was more than a woman, — she was 
a histoiy, a romance. Yes, this rich feminity, this 
harmonious assemblage of lines, these promises of pas- 
sion given by this noble structure, were tempered and 
subdued by unfailing reserve, and a singular modest}^, 
which contrasted strangely with the whole expression 
of her person. 

“ Perhaps it needed a sagacious mind to trace the 
signs of a sensuous and pleasure-loving destiny in that 
nature. Let me explain my thought more clearl3\ 
There were two women in Fedora, separated, it maj^ be, 
like the head from the bod3\ The head alone seemed 
amorous ; before looking at a man she appeared to make 
ready her glance, as if some m^^sterious, inexplicable 
thought were passing through her mind, and causing a 
tumult in those brilliant e^^es. Either my science was 
imperfect and I had still many secrets to discover in 
the moral world, or else the countess did really possess 
a noble soul, whose feelings and emanations gave to 
her countenance the charm which subjugates and fas- 
cinates, the charm whose power is a moral one, and all 


The Magic Skin. 


129 


the greater because it harmonizes with the sympathies 
of desire. I left the house bewitched and captivated by 
Fedora, intoxicated with her Iuxuit, thrilled in every 
noble, vicious, good, and evil fibre of my heart. As I 
felt this life, this emotion, this exaltation within me, I 
fancied I understood the attraction which drew about 
her artists, diplomatists, statesmen, or brokers lined 
with metal like their desks ; doubtless they came to 
find in her presence the same delirious emotion which 
made m3" whole being vibrate within me, lashed my 
blood through every vein, exasperated each nerve, and 
quivered in my brain. She belonged to none that she 
might retain them all. A coquette is a woman who 
does not love. ‘ It ma3" be,’ I said to Rastignac, ‘ that 
she was married, or sold to some old man, and that the 
remembrance of her first marriage has given her a dis- 
gust for love.’ 

“ I returned on foot from the faubourg Saint-Honor^ 
where Fedora lived. Nearly the whole of Paris lay 
between her house and the rue des Cordiers ; the way 
seemed short, and yet the night was cold. To under- 
take the conquest of Fedora in the depth of winter, 
and a severe winter, with only thirty francs in the 
world, and the distance between us so great, now 
seems madness. None but a poor 3’oung man can 
know what such a passion costs, in carriages, gloves, 
clothes, and linen. If love is kept platonic a trifle too 
long it becomes ruinous. There is man3’ a Lauzun in 
the Law School who can never aim at a love embowered 
on a first floor. And how could I, weak, delicate, ill- 
clothed, pale, and emaciated, presume to enter the lists 
with elegant young men faultlessl3" attired, curled and 


130 


The Magic Skin, 


cravatted better than the dandies of the Croatian 
Horse, driving their own tilburys, and cloaked with 
insolence? ‘Bah, Fedora or death!’ I cried to my- 
self as I crossed a bridge, ‘Fedora! she is fortune.* 
The beautiful Gothic boudoir, and the salon of Louis 
XIV. came back before my eyes ; I saw the countess 
in her snow-white robe with its wide and graceful 
sleeves, her enticing attitudes, her tempting figure. 
When I reached my cold, bare, ill-kept attic room, I 
was still environed with a sense of Fedora’s luxury. 
The contrast was an evil counsellor; many a crime 
dates from such a moment. Trembling with rage, I 
cursed my decent and honest poverty, my fruitful garret 
where so many thoughts had sprung into existence. I 
called on God, on the devil, on social order, on my 
father, and the whole universe to answer for my fate 
and my unhappiness ; I went hungry to bed, mutter- 
ing ludicrous imprecations, but fully resolved to win 
Fedora. That woman’s heart was the last ticket in 
my fortune’s lotteiy. 

“ I will spare you an account of my earlier visits to 
the countess, and come at once to the pith of my story. 
While endeavoring to reach the woman’s soul I tried to 
win her mind, and turn her vanity in my favor. To 
make her love secure, I gave her many reasons to love 
herself. I never left her in a state of indifference. 
Women want emotions at any price, and I gave them 
to her ; I preferred to have her angry with me rather 
than indifferent. Though at first, supported b}" a firm 
will, and the desire to make myself beloved, I gained 
a certain ascendency over her, m}^ passion soon in- 
creased, and I was no longer master of myself ; I fell 


The Magic Skin, 


131 


among true emotions, I lost my self-control, and be- 
came desperately in love. I do not know exactly what 
it is that we call in poetry, or in conversation, love; 
but the sentiment that suddenly developed itself in my 
dual nature I never have seen represented, either in 
the stilted and rhetorical phraseology of Jean- Jacques 
(whose very room I might then be occupjdng), or in the 
cold imaginings of our two literary centuries, nor yet 
in the paintings of Italy. The view of the Lake of 
Bienne, a few melodies of Rossini, Murillo’s Madonna, 
now in possession of Marshal Soult, the letters of La 
Lescombat, certain scattered words in collections of 
social anecdotes, above all, the pra3’ers of ecstatics, 
and a few passages in our fabliaux,, are alone able to 
transport me into the divine regions of my first love. 
Nothing in human language, no translation of human 
thought by means of paintings, statues, words, or 
sounds, can give the vigor, the truth, the complete- 
ness, the suddenness of emotion in the soul. He who 
talks of art, talks of falsehood, — art is inadequate. 
Love passes through an infinite number of transfor- 
mations before it mingles forever with our life, and 
d^^es it everlastingly" with the color of its fiame. The 
secret of this imperceptible infusion escapes the analy"- 
sis of artist or writer. True passion is expressed in 
cries and moans that are wearisome to a cool man. 
We must love sincerely" before we can share in the sav- 
age roar of Lovelace as we read ‘Clarissa Harlowe.’ 
Love is a fresh spring, bubbling up among its water- 
cresses, a brook purling through fiowery meads, and 
over pebbles, flowing, eddying, changing its nature, and 
its aspect at every influx, and flinging itself at last into 


132 


The Magic Skin, 


an immeasurable ocean which seems to half-formed 
spirits only a monotonous level, but in whose depths 
great souls are sunk in endless contemplation. 

“ How shall I dare describe these transitory shades 
of feeling, these nothings which are so infinite, these 
words whose accents exhaust all treasures of language, 
these looks more pregnant than the richest poem ? 
Before each mystic scene bj" which insensibly we come 
to love a woman, there opens an abyss which engulfs 
all human poetry. Ah ! how can we reproduce in 
empty words, like explanatory notes, these keen, 
mysterious agitations of the soul, when language fails 
us to explain the visible mystery of beauty? What 
allurements ! What hours did I not spend plunged in 
the ineflable ecstasy of seeing her ! Happy — with 
what? I know not. If at times her face was bathed 
in light, some phenomenon took place upon it which 
made it luminous ; the almost imperceptible down 
upon the fine and delicate skin softly defined its 
outlines with the charm which we admire in distant 
horizons, when they are hazj^ in the sunlight. It 
seemed to me that daylight caressed her as it blended 
with her, or that a light emanated from her radiant 
face more brilliant than light itself ; then some 
shadow passing across that shining countenance pro- 
duced a color which varied its expression with the 
changing tints. Often a thought seemed to stand forth 
upon her brow; her eye appeared to blush, the lids 
quivered, her features gently undulated, stirred by a 
smile ; the speaking coral of her lips grew animated, 
parted, then closed again ; certain reflections of her 
hair which I cannot describe threw a brown tone upon 


The Magic Skin. 


133 


her forehead ; and by these changes Fedora spoke. 
Each shade of beauty gave new feasts to my eyes, 
revealed graces still unknown to my heart. I sought 
to read a feeling, a hope, in the phases of her counte- 
nance. These mute communications travelled from 
soul to soul like sound through an echo, and gave me 
passing joys which left undying impressions. Her 
voice caused me delirious excitements which I con- 
trolled with diflSculty. Imitating some prince of 
Lorraine, — I forget who he was, — I could have taken 
a burning coal in my hand and never felt it, had she 
passed her delicate fingers through my hair. My love 
was no longer admiration or desire, it was a spell, a 
fatality. Often beneath my garret roof I saw Fedora, 
indistinctly, in her own room ; dreamily I shared her 
life. If she were suffering, I suffered, and on the 
morrow I said to her, ‘You were ill last night 
Again and suddenly, like a fiash of light, she would 
strike the pen from my hand, and scare away Science 
and study, till they fled disconsolate ; she forced me to 
think of nothing but the attitude in which I last had 
seen her ; sometimes I sought her myself in the world 
of apparitions, saluting her as Hope, praying that she 
would speak to me with her silvery voice, and then I 
awoke to weep. 

‘‘ One day after promising to go with me to the theatre 
she suddenly refused to keep her promise, and begged 
me not to visit her that evening. In despair at a disap- 
pointment which had cost me a day’s labor and, if I must 
own it, my last penny, I went to the theatre where she 
was to have been, wishing to see the play she had de- 
sired to see. I had scarcely taken my seat before an 


134 


The Magic Skin. 


electric shock fell on ray heart. A voice said to me, 
^ She is here.* I turned and saw Fedora sitting at the 
back of her box, withdrawn into the shadow. My eyes 
were not misled, the}* found her with instant keenness ; 
my soul flew to her as an insect flies to its flower. How 
came my senses to have received this intimation ? Such 
things seem surprising to superflcial minds, but these 
effects of our internal being are reallj’ as simple as the 
ordinary" phenomena of our external life ; and therefore 
I was not astonished, but angr}^ My researches into 
the nature of moral force, so little understood, made me 
notice various living proofs of my theoiy in my own 
passion. This union of scholar and lover, a positive 
idolatry with scientiflc passion, was certainly a strange 
thing. Science was often gratified by some circumstance 
which led the lover to despair, and then, when Science 
was about to prevail, the lover drove it far awa}^ from 
him and recovered happiness. 

“Fedora saw me and grew serious; I annoyed her. 
At the end of the first act I went to her box. She was 
alone and I remained. Though we had never spoken 
of love I foresaw an explanation. I had never told her 
my secret, yet a species of expectancy existed between 
us ; she told me all her plans of amusement, and asked 
me every evening with friendly anxiety whether I should 
be there on the morrow ; she questioned me with a glance 
when she said a witty thing, as if to show that she cared 
to please me exclusively ; if I were aloof or sulk}^ she 
became caressing ; if she were vexed she allowed me 
the right to question her ; if, by chance, I were guilty 
of some fault she made me entreat her long before 
she pardoned me. These quarrels, in which we both 


The Magic Skin, 


135 


found pleasure, were those of love. She displayed 
such grace and coquetry, that to me they were full 
of happiness. But at the moment of our present 
meeting such intimacy seemed suddenly suspended, 
and we faced each other almost as strangers. The 
countess was icy ; as for me, I foresaw disaster. 

<‘<Come home with me,’ she said, when the play 
ended. 

When we left the theatre the weather had 
changed ; it was raining and snowing. Fedora’s car- 
riage could not be brought up to the door of the 
theatre. Seeing a well-dressed woman obliged to 
cross the boulevard, a street-porter held an umbrella 
over her head, and asked for his fee when we were 
seated in the carriage. I had nothing ; I would have 
sold ten years of my life for ten sous at that moment. 
All that makes man and his vanity was crushed down 
in me by that infernal momentary pain. My answer, 
‘ I have no money with me, my good fellow,’ was said 
in a hard tone that came from my mortified pride, — 
said by me, the brother of that man, by me who knew 
so well the sorrows of poverty, though once I might 
have given away my hundreds and thousands. The 
footman pushed aside the porter, and the horses started. 

On the way home Fedora either was or pretended 
to be preoccupied, answering my questions by disdain- 
ful monosyllables. I kept silence. It was a dreadful 
moment. When we reached the salon she sat down be- 
side the fireplace. After the footman had made up 
the fire and retired from the room, she turned to me 
with an indefinable air and said with a species of 
solemnity ; 

“ < Since my return to France, my wealth has tempted 


136 


The Magic Skin, 


a number of young men. I have received declarations 
of love which might well gratify my pride ; I have met 
men whose attachment was so deep and sincere that 
they would have married me had I been the same poor 
girl I formerly was. In short, I wish you to know, 
Monsieur de Valentin, that wealth and titles have been 
offered to me ; and I also wish to tell you that I have 
never again received the persons who were so ill-advised 
as to speak to me of love. If my affection for you were 
trifling I would not give you this warning, in which there 
is more friendship than pride. A woman lays herself 
open to a rebuff if, supposing herself loved, she refuses 
unasked a feeling that must flatter her. I know the 
scenes of Arsinoe and Araminta, and I have considered 
the answers which I might receive under similar circum- 
stances. But I hope that I shall not be so unfairly 
judged to-day by a man of superior discernment when I 
thus frankly show him my heart.’ 

“ She spoke with the coolness of a lawyer or notary 
explaining a deed. The clear, seductive ring of her 
voice betrayed not the slightest emotion ; her face and 
her bearing, always dignified and proper, now seemed 
to have put on a diplomatic coldness and reserve. She 
had, no doubt, thought over her words and mapped out 
the scene. Oh ! my dear friend, when certain women 
find pleasure in rending our hearts, when they know 
they are plunging a dagger into our souls and turning 
it in the wound, they are adorable ; such women either 
love, or wish to be loved. Some day they will recom- 
pense us for our sufferings, as God, they say, will re- 
ward our good deeds ; they will return us pleasures an 
hundredfold for every hurt whose anguish they are 


The Magic Skin. 


137 


able to perceive ; their cruelty is full of passion. But 
to be tortured by a woman who slaughters us with in- 
difference, is an untold agony. At this moment Fedora 
blindly trod under foot every hope that was in me, broke 
my life, destroyed my future, with the cold carelessness 
and innocent cruelty of a child who tears the wings of a 
butterfly for curiosity. 

“•‘Later,’ she continued, ‘I feel sure that you will 
understand the solid affection which I offer to my friends. 
To them I am always, as you will find, kind and devoted. 
I could give my life for them, but you would despise me 
if I submitted to a love I do not share. I will say no 
more. You are the only man to whom I have ever said 
these last words.’ 

“ At first I could not answer her, speech failed me. I 
could scarcely master the tempest that rose within me ; 
but presently I drove back my feelings and said with a 
smile : — 

“ ‘ If I say that I love you, you will banish me ; if 
I show indifference, you will punish me. Priests and 
women never wholly unfrock themselves. But, ma- 
dame, silence is non-committal; you will permit me, 
therefore, to remain silent. The fact that you have 
given me this sisterly warning shows that you feared 
to lose me, and that must needs gratify my pride. 
But let us lay aside personalities. You are perhaps 
the only woman with whom I could discuss from a 
philosophical point of view these resolutions of yours, 
which are so contrary to the laws of nature. Compar- 
ing you with all others of your kind, you are a phenom- 
enon. Well, then, let us try, in good faith, to discover 
the cause of this singular physiological anomaly. Can 


138 


The Magic Skin. 

there be in you, as in other women who are full of 
self-esteem and amorous of their own perfections, a 
sentiment of refined selfishness which leads you to 
look with horror on the thought of belonging to any 
man, of abdicating your will and being subjected to a 
conventional superiority which you despise ? If that be 
so, you seem to me more beautiful than ever. Perhaps 
you were maltreated in your earliest love ? Or, it may 
be that the value you naturally attach to 3"Our exquisite 
figure makes you dread the results of maternity ; that 
indeed may be your secret reason for refusing to be 
loved. Or have you another still more secret, — some 
imperfection, that keeps you virtuous? Do not be 
angrjs I am merely discussing, studying; I am a 
thousand leagues away from love. Nature, which 
makes persons blind from their birth, can very well 
create women who are deaf, dumb, and blind to love. 
You are indeed a valuable subject for medical obser- 
vation — you do not know how valuable. You may 
well have a legitimate disgust for men ; I approve of 
it, — they seem to me, one and all, ugly and odious. 
But you are right,* I added, as I felt the swelling of 
my heart. ‘ Of course you despise us ; where is the 
man who is worthy of you?* 

“ I need not tell you any more of the sarcasms I 
poured out upon her, laughing. The bitterest word, 
the sharpest iron}’ drew no movement or gesture of 
anno3’ance from her. She listened with the usual 
smile upon her lips and in her eyes, — that smile which 
she wore as a garment, alwa^’s the same, to friends, to 
mere acquaintances, to strangers. 

“ ‘ Am I not amiable to let you put me on the table 


The Magic Skin. 


139 


of a dissecting-room?* she said, seizing a moment 
when I was silent. ‘You see,’ she continued, laughing, 
‘ I have no foolish susceptibilities in friendship. Many 
women would punish 3’our impertinence by shutting 
their doors against 3"ou.’ 

“ ‘You can banish me without being asked to give 
a reason for your severity.’ As I said the words I felt 
that I might kill her if she dismissed me. 

“ ‘ You are absurd,’ she said, laughing. 

“ ‘ Have you ever reflected,’ I continued, ‘ upon the 
effects of a violent love ? It has often happened that 
a man driven to despair has murdered his mistress.’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ she answered, coldly, ‘ it is better to die 
than to live unhapp3\ A man of such vehement pas- 
sions would certainly abandon his wife, and leave 
her with the wolf at the door, after squandering her 
fortune.* 

“ This arithmetic dumbfounded me. I saw the ab3^ss 
that lay between that woman and me. We could never 
comprehend each other. 

“ ‘Adieu,’ I said, coldly. 

“‘Adieu,’ she answered, with a friendty inclination 
of her head, ‘ until to-morrow.* 

“I looked at her steadily for a moment, flinging 
toward her, like a projectile, all the love which I now 
cast from me. She was standing erect, and replied to 
my look with a commonplace smile, the odious smile 
of a marble statue, seeming to express love, but cold 
as stone. 

“Ah! Simile, conceive the sufferings in which I re- 
turned home, through the sleet and rain, walking for 
three miles along the icy, slippery quays, having lost 


140 


The Magic Skin, 


all! Oh, to feel that she never so much as knew of 
my misery or my poverty ; she thought me, like herself, 
rich, and driving in a carriage. What ruin, what 
deception ! It was no longer a question of money, all 
the fortunes of my soul were lost. I walked, I knew 
not how or where. Discussing with mj^self the words 
of that strange conversation, I lost myself so utterly in 
the effort to explain them that I ended by doubting 
even the nominal value of ideas and words. But still 
I loved, — I loved that cold woman, whose heart 
desired to be won every night, and on the morrow, 
effacing the promises of the day before, expected to 
be wooed again. 

“As I turned through the wickets at the Institute, 
a feverish ague seized me. I remembered that I was 
fasting. I had no money, not a copper coin. To add 
to m}^ misfortunes, the rain had destroyed my hat. 
How could I approach an elegant woman, and enter 
a salon with a hat that was no longer presentable? 
Thanks to my extreme care, — all the while cursing 
a fashion which condemns us to exhibit the nap of a 
hat by carrying it constantly in our hands, — I had 
kept mine hitherto in fair condition. Without looking 
either brand-new or amorphousl}^ old, with a nap that 
was neither worn nor immaculate, it could ver^^ well 
pass for the hat of a careful man ; but now its social 
existence was at an end : it was soaked, sodden, done 
for, an actual rag, — fit representative of its owner. 
For lack of thirty sous to hire a cab, I had lost my 
pains-taking elegance. Ah I how many sacrifices, 
disregarded sacrifices, had I not made to Fedora during 
the last three months. I had often spent the money 


The Magic Skin. 


141 


I needed for my week’s bread, to go and see her for 
a single hour. To leave my work and go without food 
was nothing; but to cross the streets of Paris and 
avoid being splashed, to run and escape rain, and then 
to enter her presence as well-dressed and composed as 
the dandies who surrounded her, — ah ! to a poet, a 
lover and a man absorbed in thought, the task was 
one of unspeakable difficulty. happiness, my love, 
depended on the spotless condition of my only white 
waistcoat ! I must renounce the sight of her if I were 
muddy, or the rain had overtaken me. Not to have five 
sous so that the street shoe-black might remove some 
trifling spot of mud, was banishment from her presence. 

“ passion was increased by these petty tortures, 
which were, however, enormous to an irritable man. 
A poor lover is called upon for sacrifices which he 
cannot even speak of to a woman bred in luxur}" and 
elegance ; such women see life through a prism which 
tints the world of men and things with golden light. 
Optimist through selfishness, cruel by the laws of good 
manners, these women excuse themselves from reflect- 
ing on the character of their pleasures, and find abso- 
lution for their indifference to the misery of others in 
the rush of their enjoyments. To them a penny is 
never a million, but the millions are pennies. If a poor 
love must win its way with mighty sacrifices, it must 
also cover them delicatel3’ with a veil, and bury them in 
silence ; but the rich man, prodigal of money and of 
time, profits by the worldliness of public opinion which 
throws a glamour over the extravagances of his amo- 
rous devotion. For him silence may have a voice, and 
^e veil a grace ; but my horrible poverty' caused me 


142 


The Magic Skin. 


intolerable sufferings, and yet forbade that I should let 
it say for me, ‘I love, I die, behold my sacrifice!* 
But, after all, was it sacrifice? was I not amply re- 
warded by the happiness I felt in immolating m3'self 
for her? The countess had given the utmost value, 
and brought excessive enjoyment to the smallest inci- 
dents of my life. Formerly-, in the matter of dress, I 
had been careless and indifferent. I now respected my 
clothes as if thej^ were another self. Between a wound 
on my own bod}^ and a rent in my coat I should not 
have hesitated a moment. 

“ Emile, 3’ou must surely now perceive my situation, 
and understand the rage of thoughts, of ever-increasing 
frenz}" that hurried me along from that fatal interview. 
A sort of infernal joy possessed me as I felt m3^self at 
the apex of all misfortunes. I tried to fancy it might 
be a culminating point, and to think it of good augur^^ ; 
but alas ! evil has resources without end. 

“ The door of my inn was open. I noticed a light 
coming through the heart-shaped hole cut in the blinds, 
Pauline and her mother were sitting up for me. I 
heard my name, and paused a moment to listen. 

“ ‘ Raphael is much nicer than the student in number 
seven,* Pauline was saving. ‘ His blond hair is such 
a pretty color ! Don’t 3'ou think there is something in 
his voice — I can’t tell what — that stirs one’s heart ? 
And then, though he has a rather haughty" air, he is so 
good, and his manners are so distinguished. I call 
him trul}- handsome, and I should think all women 
would fall in love with him.’ 

“ ‘ You speak as if you loved him 3’ourself,’ said 
Madame Gaudin. 


The Magic Skin, 


143 


“‘Oh, I love him as a brother!* cried Pauline, 
laughing. ‘ I should be shamefully ungrateful if I did 
not. Has n’t he taught me music, drawing, grammar, 
— in fact, all I know. You don’t pay much attention 
to my progress, mamma; but I am really getting so 
well educated that before long I can give lessons my- 
self, and then we can keep a servant.’ 

“ I drew back softly, made a noise at the door, and 
then entered the room to take my lamp, which Pauline 
hastened to light. The poor child had poured a balm 
upon my wounds. Her simple praise gave me some 
trifling courage. I needed to believe in myself once 
more, and to get an impartial opinion on the real value 
of my merits. My hopes, thus revived, reflected pos- 
sibly on the way I saw things. Perhaps, moreover, I 
had never seriously noticed the scene daily ofiered to 
my eyes by these two women at work in their chamber ; 
but now I enjoyed it as a living and delightful picture 
of the modest lives so faithfully reproduced by Flemish 
painters. The mother, seated in the chimne3^-corner, 
was knitting stockings, a kindl}^ smile resting on her 
lips. Pauline was painting screens; her colors and 
brushes, spread on a little table, spoke to the e^^e 
with charming effect. She herself had risen to get 
my lamp, whose full light now fell upon her face. A 
man must indeed have been subjugated by a blinding 
passion had he failed to admire the rosy, transparent 
fingers, the ideal beauty’ of her head, and her maidenly 
attitude. Night-time and silence both lent their charm 
to this scene of quiet labor, this tranquil fireside. 
Such labor, steadily and cheerfully maintained, told of 
Christian resignation drawn from the highest emotions. 


144 


The Magic Skin. 


An indefinable harmony existed between these women 
and the things about them. Fedora’s luxury was hard ; 
it awakened evil thoughts in m}^ mind, while this hum- 
ble poverty and cheerful goodness refreshed my spirit. 
It may have been that I was humbled in the presence 
of luxury ; while beside these two women in their brown 
room, where life, simplified to nature, seemed to find 
its resting-place in the emotions of the heart, I was, 
perhaps, reconciled with myself through the sense of 
exercising that protection of my sex which man is so 
eager to have acknowledged. As I went up to Pauline 
she looked at me with an almost motherly expression, 
crying out, as, with trembling hands, she hastilj^ placed 
the lamp upon the table : — 

“ ‘ Heavens ! how pale you are ! Ah, he is wet 
through ! Let my mother dry your clothes. Monsieur 
Raphael,’ she added after a momentary pause, ‘3’ou 
are fond of milk ; we have some nice cream to-night, — 
won’t you taste it ? ’ So saying, she sprang like a little 
cat to a china bowl full of milk, which she held up to 
m3" lips so prettily that I hesitated. 

“‘You can’t refuse me?’ she said in an altered 
voice. 

‘ ‘ Our two prides understood each other. Pauline 
grieved for her povertj^ and reproached me for my 
haughtiness. I was greatly touched. The cream was 
doubtless intended for their breakfast the next morn- 
ing, but nevertheless I accepted it. The poor girl tried 
to hide her pleasure, but it sparkled in her e3'es. 

“ ‘ I needed it,’ I said to her, sitting down. A 
pained look crossed her face. ‘ Do you remember, 
Pauline, that passage in Bossuet, where he depicts God 


The Magic Skin. 145 

as rewarding a cup of cold water more richly than a 
victory ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes/ she said, and her bosom throbbed like a 
bird in the hands of a child. 

“ ‘ Well, as we must soon part,' I continued, speak- 
ing unsteadily, ‘ let me show you my gratitude for all 
the kindness you and your mother have bestowed upon 
me.' 

“ ‘ Oh, don't let us reckon such things ! ' she said, 
laughing; but her laugh hid an emotion that pained 
me. 

‘ My piano,’ I continued without seeming to hear 
her words, ‘ is one of Erard’s best instruments. I want 
you to accept it. You can do so without scruple, for I 
could not take it with me on the journey I am about to 
undertake.' 

“The tone in which I spoke may have enlightened 
them, for the two women seemed to understand my 
meaning. They looked at me with terrified curiosity. 
The affection for which I had vainly searched in the 
cold regions of the great world was here, beside me, — 
genuine, without display, but earnest, and perhaps 
lasting. 

“ ‘ You must not take life too hard,' said the mother. 
‘ Remain here with us. My husband is certainly on 
his way home. To-night I read the gospel of Saint 
John, while Pauline held our key suspended on a Bible ; 
and the key turned. That is a sure sign that Gaudin 
is w'ell and prospering. Pauline tried it for you and 
for the young man in number seven ; your key turned 
and the other did not. We shall all be rich ; Gaudin 
will come back a millionnaire ; I dreamed of him in 
10 


146 


The Magic Skin, 


a ship full of snakes ; fortunately, the waves were 
rough, for that means gold and precious stones from 
foreign parts/ 

“ These friendl}^ and foolish words, like the vague 
songs of mothers putting their babes to sleep, restored 
me to some calmness. The look and tone of the good 
woman were full of that gentle cordiality which cannot 
efface grief, but still does soften, soothe, and allay it. 
More perceptive than her mother, Pauline watched me 
anxiously; her intelligent eyes seemed to guess my 
life and my future. I thanked them both with an 
inclination of my head, and then I left the room, 
fearing to show my feelings. Once alone under the 
roof, I took my grief to bed with me. My fatal 
imagination invented project after project, all base- 
less, and prompted me to impossible resolutions. 
When a man drags himself through the wreck of his 
fortune, some resources still remain for him, but for 
me there was nothing — there was nothingness. Ah! 
friend, we are too ready to blame the poor. Let us be 
indulgent to the results of that worst of all social dis- 
solvents, poverty. Where poverty reigns, neither 
purity, nor crime, nor virtue, nor mind, can be 
said to exist. I was now without ideas, without 
strength, like a young girl on her knees before a tiger. 
A man without money and without a passion is his 
own master ; but an unhappy being who loves belongs 
to himself no longer, — he cannot even kill himself. 
Love gives us a sort of worship for ourselves ; we 
respect another life within our own ; it then becomes 
the most horrible of all sufferings, — the suffering that 
has hope in it, hope that makes us willing to endure 


The Magic Skin, 


147 


torture. I fell asleep, resolving to go to Rastignac the 
next da}' , and teU him of Fedora’s strange conduct. 

“‘Ha, ha!’ cried Eugene, as he saw me enter his 
rooms at nine o’clock in the morning. ‘ I know what 
brings you here ; Fedora has dismissed you. A few 
kind souls, jealous of your power over the countess 
have spread the report of your marriage. God knows 
the stuff your rivals have talked, and the calumnies 
they have told of you.’ 

“ ‘ That explains everything! ’ I cried. 

“ I recollected my insolent speeches to the countess, 
and felt that her forbearance had been sublime. I now 
thought myself a brute who had not been made to 
suffer enough, and I saw in her gentleness the patient 
charity of love. 

“ ‘ Not so fast,’ said the prudent Gascon. ‘Fedora 
has the natural penetration of a selfish woman ; she may 
have taken your measure at the time when you thought 
only of her wealth and luxury ; in spite of your caution 
she may then have read your mind. She is so dissim- 
ulating herself that she cannot endure dissimulation in 
others. I fear,’ he added, ‘ that I have started you on 
a bad road. In spite of Fedora’s refinement of mind 
and manners, the woman herself seems to me as hard 
and imperious as all other w^omen who enjoy pleasure by 
the head. Happiness for her is ease of life and social 
enjoyment ; as for sentiment or feeling, they are merely a 
role she likes to play. She would make you very un- 
happy ; you would end in being her chief footman — ’ 

“Rastignac spoke as to a deaf man. I interrupted 
his discourse, and told him, vrith apparent gayety, of 
my financial position. 


148 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Last night,’ he replied, ‘ a stroke of ill-luck car- 
ried off ever}^ penn}^ that I could command. If it were 
not for that commonplace accident I would share m3' 
purse with 3'ou. But come and breakfast at the cafe : 
we will have some oysters, and perhaps they ’ll give 
us good advice.’ 

“ He dressed himself, and ordered his tilbury ; then, 
like two millionnaires, we betook ourselves to the Cafe 
de Paris, with the assurance of those bold speculators 
who live on imaginar3' capital. This devil of a Gascon 
literally confounded me with the ease of his manners 
and his imperturbable aplomb. Just as we were taking 
coffee after a delicious and well-chosen repast, Ras- 
tignac, who kept bowing right and left to a crowd of 
3'oung men remarkable for their personal appearance 
and also for the elegance of their attire, said to me as he 
saw another of these dandies enter the room, ‘ Here ’s 
your man ; ’ then he signed to a gentleman well-gloved 
and cravatted, who was looking round him for a table. 

“ ‘ That fellow,’ whispered Rastignac in my ear, 
‘ wears the Legion of honor for having published works 
he can’t understand. He is a man of science, historian, 
romance-writer, and journalist ; he owns quarters, 
thirds, halves, in I don’t know how many stage pla3"s, 
and he ’s as ignorant as Don Miguel’s mule. He is n’t 
a man, he’s a name, a ticket. He takes very good 
care never to commit himself to a scrap of writing; 
he ’s shrewd enough to trick a whole congress. To ex- 
plain him in one sentence, he is a mongrel in morals, — 
neither a complete scoundrel nor an honest man. But 
he fought a duel; the world asks nothing more, and 
calls him an honorable man — Well, my excellent and 


The Magic Skin, 


149 


honorable friend, bow is Your Intelligence?* said Ras 
tignac to the new-comer, who now seated himself at 
the adjoining table. 

“ ‘ Neither well nor ill. I am worn out with work. 
I have now in m}^ hands all the necessary material for 
some very curious historical memoirs, and I don’t know 
to whom to attribute them. It worries me, for if I don’t 
make haste, memoirs will get out of fashion.’ 

“ ‘ Are they contemporaneous, or ancient history, of 
court memoirs, or what? ’ 

“ ‘ They are about the Diamond Necklace.’ 

“ ‘ A downright miracle ! ’ said Rastignac in my ear, 
with a laugh ; then, turning again to the speculator, he 
said, introducing me, ‘ Monsieur de Valentin is a friend 
of mine, whom I present to you as a future literary 
celebrity. He had an aunt belonging to the old court, 
a marchioness, and for the last two years he has been 
working at a royalist history of the Revolution ; ’ then, 
leaning toward this singular man of literary business, 
he added in a lower tone, ‘ He is a man of talent, but 
a soft fellow who will do your memoirs for you and 
give them his aunt’s name for three hundred francs a 
volume.’ 

“ ‘ That will suit me,’ said the other, pulling up his 
cravat. ‘ Waiter, my oysters, quick I ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, but you must give me twent3’-five louis for 
my commission, and pay him for a volume in advance,’ 
said Rastignac. 

“ ‘ No, no. I won’t advance more than a hundred 
and fifty francs, and then I shall be more sure of get- 
ting the work done promptly.’ 

“ Rastignac repeated this mercantile agreement to 


150 


The Magic Skin, 


me in a low voice. Then, without consulting me, he 
said to the other man, ‘That’s a bargain; when can 
we see 5"ou again, to settle the affair? ’ 

“ ‘ Well, come and dine here to-morrow evening at 
seven o’clock.’ 

“We rose to leave the cafe; Rastignac threw some 
change to the waiter, put the bill in his pocket, and we 
went out into the street. I was stupefied by the light 
and airy manner in which he had sold my respectable 
aunt, the Marquise de Montbauron. 

“ ‘ I would rather embark for Brazil or go and teach 
algebra to the Indians, than soil the name of my 
family ! ’ 

“ Rastignac burst out laughing : — 

“ ‘Oh ! what a fool you are. In the first place get 
3’our hundred and fifty francs and do the memoirs. 
When they are done, idiot, you can refuse to give the 
name of your aunt. Madame de Montbauron, dead on 
the scaffold, her paniers, her paraphernalia, her beaut}’, 
her paint, and her slippers are worth a great deal more 
than six hundred francs. If the publisher won’t pay 
you a proper price for your aunt, and all that, he can 
easily find a broken-down man of fashion who lives by 
his wits, or some smirched countess to sign the 
volumes.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! ’ I cried, ‘ why did I ever leave my virtuous 
garret? — the world has a base, vile side to it ! ’ 

“‘Bah!’ said Rastignac, ‘you are talking poetry 
about a matter of business. You are nothing but a 
child. Listen ; as for the memoirs, the public will judge 
of them ; as to my literary broker, has n’t he spent eight 
years of his life at his business, and paid for his present 


151 


The Magic Skin, 

relations with publishers at the price of cruel experience ? 
By sharing the profits of the book unequally with him, 
is n’t your part in the affair much the noblest ? Seventy- 
five francs are more to you than a thousand francs to 
him. Come, 3’ou can ver^’^ well write those memoirs 
(works of art if ever they were any), when Diderot wrote 
six sermons for a hundred francs.’ 

“ ‘ It is a necessity',’ I replied ; ‘ and I know I ought 
to be grateful to you. Sevent^’-five francs are riches 
to me.’ 

“ ‘More riches than you think for,* said Eugene, 
laughing. ‘ If Finot gives me a commission for the 
affair, of course you know it is yours. Let ’s go and 
drive in the bois de Boulogne,’ he continued ; ‘ you 
will meet j^our countess, and I ’ll show 3^ou the pretty 
little widow I am going to marr3' , — a charming person, 
a rather fat Alsacian. She reads Kant, Schiller, Jean- 
Paul, and lots of hydraulic books ; she persists in asking 
for m3’ opinion on them, and I ’m obliged to pretend 
that I understand all that German sentimentality, and 
dote on a heap of ballads and things, which are posi- 
tively forbidden me b3’ my physician. I have n’t 3"et 
broken her of literary enthusiasm. Would 3’ou believe 
it? she cries over Goethe, and I’m obliged to cry too, 
— that is, a little, out of policy ; 3’ou see, my dear fellow, 
it is a matter of fifty thousand francs a 3'ear, and the 
prettiest little foot and the prettiest little hand in the 
world. Oh ! if she only did not mispronounce her 
words with that horrible German accent she would be 
an accomplished woman.’ 

“ We met Fedora, looking brilliant in a brilliant 
equipage. The coquettish creature bowed very cordially 


/ 


152 


The Magic Skin, 


and gave me a smile which I thought divine and full of 
love. Ah ! once more I was happy, and thought myself 
beloved ; I had the wealth and the treasures of passion ; 
there was no poverty, no miseiy for me now. Gay, 
happy, pleased with everything, I thought Rastignac’s 
mistress charming. The trees, the skies, the atmosphere, 
all nature seemed to copy Fedora’s smile. Returning 
bj’ the Champs-Elj’sees we went to Rastignac’s hatter and 
tailor. The Diamond Necklace allowed me to put my- 
self in battle-array for the struggle before me. In future, 
I could match the grace and elegance of the young men 
who revolved around Fedora. I went back to m3’ garret 
and shut m3’self in ; I sat down at m}^ little window, 
tranquil apparently while inwardly bidding an eternal 
adieu to the sea of roofs, living in the future, dramatiz- 
ing my life, discounting, before it came to me, love with 
all its joys. Ah ! what tumults may shake a solitary 
life between the four walls of a garret! The human 
soul is a fair}' ; she transforms straws into diamonds ; 
at a touch of her magic wand enchanted palaces spring 
up like the flowers of the fleld beneath the warm in- 
spirations of the sun. 

“On the morrow, about mid-day, Pauline knocked at 
my door and brought me — what do 3'ou suppose? a 
letter from Fedora ! The countess asked me to take 
her to the Luxembourg, and then to the Museum and 
the Jardin des Plantes. ‘ A porter is waiting for the 
answer,’ said Pauline, after a moment’s silence. I 
wrote a hasty reply, which Pauline carried oflT. Then I 
dressed. Just as I had finished, and was looking at 
m3’self with some satisfaction, a horrible thought crossed 
m3’ mind, — ‘ Will Fedora drive, or go on foot? what if it 


The Magic Skin. 


153 


rains ? will it be fine ? ’ I did not own a copper farthing, 
and could not get one till I met Finot at night. Ah ! 
how often in such crises of our youth does a poet pay 
dear for the intellectual force which he has acquired 
through toil and fasting? A thousand thoughts now 
pierced me like so many arrows. I looked at the sky, the 
weather was doubtful*. If the worst came to the worst 
I might take a carriage by the day — but how could I 
have a moment’s peace of mind in the midst of my hap- 
piness from the fear that I might not meet Finot at night? 
I felt I was not strong enough to bear such anxiety in 
presence of Fedora. Though I knew very well I should 
find nothing, I began a search through my room for 
imaginary coins ; I rummaged everywhere, even to the 
straw mattress and my old boots. A prey to nervous 
excitement, I looked about the disordered room with 
haggard e3'es. Can }"ou understand the delirium that 
seized upon me when, opening the drawer of m}^ writing- 
table for the seventh time in a sort of idle way which 
came of my despair, I beheld, caught in a crack of the 
wood, si}’!}- hiding, but clean, brilliant, and shining like 
a rising star, a noble five-franc piece ! Not asking the 
cause of its evasion or of its cruelty in escaping me so 
long, I kissed it as though it were a friend faithful in 
trouble, when suddenly my cry of delight was echoed 
in the room. I turned hastily and saw Pauline, who 
had turned pale. 

“ ‘ I feared,’ she said, ‘ that you were ill. The porter 
who brought the letter ’ — she interrupted herself and 
seemed to choke down her words, — ‘ but my mother 
has paid him,’ she added quickly. Then she ran away 
with frolicsome, childlike grace. Poor little one] I 


154 


The Magic Skin, 


wished her all the happiness I now felt; I had within 
me the joy of the whole earth, and I would gladly have 
given to the unfortunate some part of that which I 
seemed to have stolen from them. 

“We are nearly always right in our presentiments of 
evil, — the countess had sent away her carriage. With 
one of those caprices which prettj^ women themselves 
do not always understand, she chose to walk to the 
Jardin des Plantes along the boulevards. ^Butitwill 
rain,’ I said to her. She took pleasure in contradicting 
me. It so happened that the weather continued fair 
while we crossed the Luxembourg. As we left the 
gardens a heavy cloud which I had been watching with 
anxiet3’' let fall a few drops, and I called a coach. 
When we reached the boulevards the rain was over 
and the skj" clear. I was about to dismiss the carriage 
at the Museum, but Fedora begged me to keep it. 
What torture all this was to me ! To talk with her, 
repressing the secret anxiety which was no doubt 
written on my face in a fixed and idiotic smile ; to 
wander through the shrubberies of the Jardin des 
Plantes and feel her arm within my own, — all this, in 
itself, was fantastically strange ; it was as though I 
dreamed in open day. And yet her movements and 
actions, whether in walking, or pausing, or conversing, 
had nothing trul}^ soft or loving about them, notwith- 
standing their alluring qualit3\ When I tried to asso- 
ciate myself in some wa}^ with the current of her life, 
I was made aware of an inward and secret sharpness in 
her, something harsh, abrupt, even eccentric. Women 
without souls have nothing mellow in their gestures. 
We were not in unison, — neither in our will, nor even 


The Magic Skin. 


155 


m our steps. There are no words that clearly explain 
this indefinable material discord between two human 
beings ; for we are not 3^et accustomed to recognize a 
thought in a movement. That phenomenon of our na- 
ture is felt instinctively, but so far it has never been 
formulated in words. 

“ During these violent paroxysms of m\’ passion,” 
continued Raphael after a pause, and as if he were 
answering some objection in his own mind, “ I never 
dissected m}^ sensations, or analyzed my pleasures, or 
counted the beatings of m\' heart, as the miser counts 
and weighs his gold. Oh, no ! experience is now 
throwing its melanfchoh’ light upon those past events ; 
memory brings back to me those scenes, those images, 
as in calm weather after a storm the waves cast frag- 
ment after fragment of a wreck upon the shore. 

“ ‘You can do me a great service,’ said the countess, 
after a while, looking at me with a rather confused air. 
‘ Having confided to 3^011 m3' antipath3' to love, I feel 
more free to claim a kindness from you as a friend. 
You will thus,’ she added, laughing, ‘ have twice as 
much merit in assisting me, — don’t 3*ou think so? ’ I 
looked at her in despair. Untouched b3' an3’ feeling 
for the man beside her, she was coaxing but not affec- 
tionate ; she seemed to me to be playing the part of a 
consummate actress ; then, suddenlv, at a word, a look, 
a tone, my hopes revived ; my love, reanimated, shone 
in my e3'es ; but again no answering sign appeared in 
hers, the3^ sustained the gleams from mine without a 
change in their own clearness ; the3^ seemed, like 
those of tigers, to be lined with a metal foil. At that 
moment I hated her. 


156 


The Magic Skin, 


“ ‘ The influence of the Due de Navarreins,’ she said, 
in a soft, cajoling tone of voice, ‘ would be very useful 
to me with an all-powerful personage in Russia, whose 
intervention is necessar}- before I can obtain justice in 
a matter which concerns both my property and my 
position in society; I mean the recognition of my 
marriage by the Emperor. The Due de Navarreins 
is, I think, your cousin. A letter from him would 
obtain all.’ 

“ ‘ I am yours,’ I replied ; ‘ command me.’ 

“ ‘ You are ver}^ kind,’ she said, pressing my hand. 
‘ Come and dine with me, and I will tell 3’ou everything 
as if you were my confessor.’ 

“ So, then, this discreet, distrustful woman, from 
whom no one had yet obtained a word as to her own 
affairs, was about to consult me. 

“ ‘ Ah ! how thankful I am now for the reserve you 
have imposed upon me,’ I cried ; ‘ though I would have 
liked some harder task.’ 

“ She now welcomed and accepted the intoxication in 
m3’ glance, and gave herself freely to m3’ admiration — 
surely she loved me! We reached her house. For- 
tunately my five-franc piece was enough to pay the 
coachman. I passed a delightful da3’ alone with her, 
in her own home. It was the first time I had ever seen 
her thus. Until now the society around her, her con- 
ventional politeness, and her cold reserve, had always 
separated us, even at her sumptuous dinner-parties. 
But now I was with her as if I lived beneath her roof ; 
she was mine, so to speak. My vagrant imagination 
burst all bounds, marshalled the events of life to suit 
m3’ wishes, and plunged me into the delights of happy 


The Magic Shin, 


167 


love. Fanc3dng myself her husband, I admired her 
busy about trifling things ; it even gave me happiness 
to see her lay aside her hat and shawl. She left me 
alone for a time and returned with her hair charmingly 
arranged. Her pretty toilet had been made for me! 
During dinner, she paid me many attentions, and dis- 
pla^^ed all those little graces that seem nothing in them- 
selves, yet are the half of life. When we were both 
seated on silken cushions beside a sparkling Are, sur- 
rounded by the delightful creations of oriental luxury ; 
when I beheld so near to me the woman whose cele- 
brated beauty moved all hearts, a woman difficult to 
conquer, yet now addressing me, and making me the 
object of her delightful coquetry*, — the felicity of my 
mind and of my senses became actual suffering. I 
suddenly remembered the important matter about the 
memoirs, which I had agreed to arrange that night, and 
I rose to leave Fedora and keep my appointment. 

“‘What! going already?' she said, as she saw me 
take my hat. 

“ Ah, she loved me ! at least I thought so as I heard 
her utter those few words in caressing tones. To pro- 
long that ecstasy I would willingly have cut two years 
from the end of life for every hour that she thus granted 
to me. My happiness was the dearer for the loss of 
my only chance of money. It was midnight when at 
last she sent me awa3^ But on the morrow my happi- 
ness cost me some remorse ; I feared I had lost my 
opportunity in the affair of the memoirs, now of vital 
importance to me. I went to And Rastignac, and to- 
gether we surprised the titular author of my coming 
work just as he was getting out of bed. Finot read me 


158 


The Magic Skin. 

a formal agreement, in which there was no mention of 
my aunt, and after it was signed he paid me one 
hundred and fifty francs in advance. We all three 
breakfasted together. When I had paid for my new 
hat, sixty cachets at thirty sous, and my debts, there 
remained only thirty francs ; but all my diflTiculties 
were over for the time being. If I had allowed Ras- 
tignac to wholl}" persuade me, I might have become 
practically wealth}" by adopting what he called ‘ the 
English system.’ He wanted me to establish a credit 
and borrow money ; declaring that loans sustained 
credit. According to his ideas the most solid capital 
in the world was the future. To h3"pothecate, as he 
said, my debts upon future contingencies, he gave my 
custom to his own tailor, an artist who understood 
young men^ and who would let me alone till I 
married. 

“From that day I abandoned the studious and mo- 
nastic life which I had led for three years. I went 
habitually to Fedora’s house, where I tried to surpass 
in assumption and impertinence the heroes of her 
coterie. Thinking that I was forever quit of poverty, 
I recovered my freedom of mind. I surpassed my 
rivals, and was admitted to be a man of power and 
fascination. Yet clever persons were not wanting who 
said of me, ‘ So intelligent a young man keeps his 
passions to his head.’ They praised my mind at the 
expense of my heart. ‘ Happy fellow, not to love,’ 
they cried ; ‘ if he were in love he could not keep his 
gayety, his animation.’ And yet I was amorously stupid 
in presence of Fedora. Alone with her, I found noth- 
ing to say ; or if I spoke I only misrepresented love. 


The Magic Shin. 


159 


I was mournfully gay, like a courtesan who tries to 
hide a cruel mortification. Still, I endeavored to make 
myself indispensable to her life, her happiness, and her 
vanit}’. I was a slave waiting beside her, a plaything 
to be ordered about. After wasting my days in this 
manner, I went home to work all night, seldom sleeping 
more than two or three hours in the morning. But not 
possessing, like Eastignac, the habits of the ‘ English 
S3’stem,’ I was soon without a penny. From that da^*, 
my dear friend, I became a hanger-on without suc- 
cesses, a dandj’ without mone^", a lover without rights. 
I fell back into the precarious life, the cold, hopeless, 
heav3’ miser3" carefull3" hidden under the deceitful ap- 
pearance of luxur3\ My earlier sufferings returned to 
me, but they were less acute. I was now familiar with 
their terrible crises. Often the cakes and tea so parsi- 
moniously offered in great houses were my only nour- 
ishment. Sometimes the countess’s grand dinners fed 
me for two days. I emplo3’ed m3" time, my powers, 
and my scientific observation in penetrating, step by 
step, Fedora’s impenetrable character. Up to this 
time hope or despair had influenced m3" judgment. I 
saw her, by turns, a loving woman or the most unfeel- 
ing of her sex. 

“But such alternations of 303" and sadness became 
intolerable. I tried to kill my love, and so put an end 
to this awful struggle. A noxious light darted at 
times into m3’ soul and showed me the dark abysses 
between us. Fedora justified all my distrust. Never 
did I see a tear in her e3’e. A tender scene at a 
theatre left her cold and jesting. All her wit and 
cleverness were reserved for her own ends ; she had 


160 


The Magic Skin, 


no conception of the sorrows or happiness of others. 
In short, she had once more tricked me ! Happy in 
offering her a sacrifice, I humiliated mj^self and went 
to see my relation the Due de Navarreins, an egoist, 
who blushed for my poverty, and had done me too 
many wrongs not to feel an aversion to me. He re- 
ceived me with the cold politeness which makes every 
word and gesture an insult ; his uneasy air actually 
excited my pity. I was ashamed, for his sake, at such 
pettiness in the midst of such grandeur. He spoke of 
his losses, occasioned hy a fall in the three per cents, 
but I cut him short with a statement of the object of 
my visit. The instant change in his manner disgusted 
me — Well ! my dear Emile, he came to see the coun- 
tess, and I was set aside. Fedora exercised upon 
him all hei* enchantments. She completel}" won him ; 
she managed the mysterious affair without consulting 
me ; I had simplj" been her tool ! She no longer looked 
at me when m3' cousin was present, and showed me less 
courtes3" than on the da}' I first went to her house. 
One evening she humiliated me in presence of the duke 
with a gesture and a look that no words can describe. 
I left the house with a bursting heart, forming wild 
schemes of vengeance and retaliation. 

“ Sometimes I accompanied her to the opera, and 
there, beside her, filled with my love, I contemplated 
her beaut}' as I gave myself up to the influence of the 
music, spending my soul in the double joy of loving 
and of hearing my emotions echoed in the language of 
the musician. My passion was all about us, in the 
air, on the stage ; triumphant everywhere except in 
the heart of my mistress. I took her hand ; I studied 


The Magic Skin, 


161 


her features and her eyes, soliciting the fusion of oui 
feelings in one of those sudden harmonies evoked by 
music which bring true hearts to vibrate in unison, 
but her hand was mute, her eyes said nothing. When 
the fire of my feelings, issuing from every feature, struck 
sharply on her face she gave me that collected smile, 
that conventional sweetness which appears on the lips 
of every portrait exhibited in the Salon. She never lis- 
tened to the music. The divine scores of Rossini, 
Cimarosa, Zingarelli reminded her of no sentiment, in- 
terpreted no poem of her life ; her soul was arid. She 
sat there like an actor in presence of acting. Her opera- 
glass was turned incessantly from box to box ; uneasy, 
though tranquil outwardly, she was a slave to the 
world of fashion ; her box, her appearance, her toilet, 
her carriage, her person were all in all for her. You 
will often find persons of stalwart appearance whose 
heart is tender and delicate within an iron frame ; but 
Fedora hid an iron heart within her slender and grace- 
ful body. My fatal perceptions tore off her disguises. 
If good breeding consists in forgetting ourselves for 
others, in keeping our tones and gestures to unfailing 
courtes}", and in pleasing those about us by render- 
ing them pleased and satisfied with themselves, then 
Fedora, in spite of her apparent refinement, did not 
efface all signs of a plebeian origin ; her forgetfulness 
of herself was false ; her good manners, far from in- 
nate, were laboriously studied; her very politeness 
showed a tinge of servitude. 

“ And yet to those who pleased her, the countess’s 
honeyed words seemed the expression of a kind heart, 
her pretentious exaggerations the utterance of a noble 
11 


162 


The Magic Skin. 


enthusiasm. I alone had studied her artifices. I had 
stripped from her inner being the slight covering that 
sufficed the world, and was no longer the dupe of her 
trickeries ; I knew to its depths that cat-like spirit. 
When some ninn}" complimented and praised her I 
felt ashamed for her. And 3’et I loved her, loved her 
ever ! I hoped to melt the ice of her nature beneath 
the wings of a poet’s love. Could I once have opened 
her heart to woman’s tenderness, could I have taught 
her the sublimity of self-devotion, she would have 
seemed to me perfect, — an angel indeed. I loved her 
as a man, a lover, an artist, when to obtain her I ought 
never to have loved her at all. A high-living man of 
the world, or a cool speculator, could perhaps have won 
her. Vain and artful, she might have listened to the 
voice of vanit}’, or allowed herself to be entangled 
in the net of an intrigue ; a hard and frigid nature 
might have controlled hers. Sharp pains cut me to 
the quick when I came face to face with her egotism. 
With anguish I imagined her some day alone in life, 
not knowing where to stretch her hands, and meeting 
no friendl}’ looks on which to rest her own. One even- 
ing I had the courage to picture to her in startling 
colors her deserted old age, barren and devoid of in- 
terests. When I made her see the awful vengeance of 
denied and thwarted nature she gave me this shameless 
answer : — 

“ ‘ I should still have my wealth ; and gold can cre- 
ate around us all the feelings which we require for our 
comfort.’ 

“ I left the house overcome b^' the logic of that lux- 
uiy, of that woman, of that societj^ ; and bitterly I re- 


The Magic Skin, 


163 


pented of mad idolatry. I would not love Pauline 
because she was poor ; was the rich Fedora wrong be- 
cause she repulsed me ? Our conscience is an infallible 
judge, provided we do not kill it. ‘ Fedora/ cried a 
sophistical voice within me, ‘ neither loves nor repulses 
any one. She is free ; but she once gave herself for 
gold. Lover or husband, the Russian count possessed 
her. Temptation will surely come to her some day. 
Await it.’ Neither virtuous nor faulty, the woman 
lived apart from humanity, in a sphere of her own, 
were it hell or paradise. This mysterious female, robed 
in cashmeres and laces, set every fibre of m3' heart, 
every human emotion within me, — pride, ambition, 
love, curiosity, — in motion. 

“ About this time, a fashionable caprice, or that desire 
to seem original which pursues us all, had led to a mania 
for attending a little theatre on the boulevard. The 
countess expressed a wish to see the befioured face of 
an actor, who was much praised bj- certain critics, and 
I obtained the honor of taking her to the first repre- 
sentation of some wretched farce. The cost of the box 
was scarcely five francs ; but even so, I did not possess 
a single farthing. Having half a volume of the memoirs 
still to write, I could not appl3' to Finot, and Rastignac, 
my private providence, was absent. 

“ This perpetual pauperism was the evil genius of 
m3" life. Once, as we left the Bouffons on a rainy 
night, Fedora insisted on her footman’s calling me a 
cab, in spite of m3" assurances that I liked the rain, and 
was, moreover, going to a gambling-house. She did not 
guess my real reasons from the embarrassment of my 
manner, nor from the half-jesting sadness of m3" words. 


164 


The Magic Skin, 


The lives of young men are subjected to singular acci- 
dents of this sort. As I drove along, every turn of the 
wheels awakened thoughts that burned my heart. I 
endeavored in vain to escape from the coach while it 
was still moving. I burst into convulsive laughter, and 
then sat rigid in gloomy stillness, like a man in the 
stocks. When I reached the house, Pauline inter- 
rupted my first hesitating words : ‘ If you have no 
change,' she said, ‘ let me pay the coachman.' Ah ! 
the music of Rossini was nothing to the charm of those 
words ! 

“ But to return to the Funambules. To be able to 
escort the countess, I thought of pawning the gold 
setting round my mother’s picture. Though the Mont- 
de-Piete had alwaj^s appeared to my mind as the high- 
road to the galleys, yet I now felt that I would rather 
take my bed and pledge it there than beg a charity. 
The glance of a man from whom j’ou solicit money is 
so wounding ! Certain loans cost us our honor, just as 
certain refusals from the lips of a friend dispel our last 
illusions. When I re-entered the Hotel Saint-Quentin, 
Pauline was painting her screens, but her mother had 
gone to bed. Casting a furtive look at the bed, whose 
curtains were slightl}^ raised, I thought I perceived that 
Madame Gaudin was asleep. 

“ ‘ Something troubles j’ou,' said Pauline, la3ing down 
her brushes. 

“ ‘ My dear child, 3’ou can do me a great service,' I 
answered. She gave me such a happy glance that I 
quivered. ‘ Can she love me? ' I thought. ‘ Pauline,' 
I said, and I sat down bjr her to study her. She 
guessed my thoughts, for the very tones of my voice 


The Magic Skin. 


165 


were a question; then she lowered her eyes, and I 
watched her, believing I could read her heart as plainly 
as I could my own, so pure, so artless, was her face. 

“ ‘ You love me? ’ I cried. 

“ ‘ A little, — passionately, — not at all ! * she an- 
swered, laughing. 

“No, she did not love me. Her jesting tone and 
pretty gesture onty meant the frolicsome gratitude of a 
3^oung girl. I therefore told her my distress, explained 
the embarrassment in which I found m3’self, and begged 
her to help me. ‘ Oh, Monsieur Raphael ! ' she said, 
‘ 3’ou will not go 3’^ourself to the Mont-de-Piete, and yet 
3’ou send me ! ’ I blushed, confounded by a child’s logic. 
Then she took my hand, as if to compensate me b3^ a 
caress for the truth of her exclamation. ‘ Indeed, I would 
go,’ she said, ^ but it is not necessar3\ This morning I 
found two five-franc pieces behind the piano, and I put 
them on 3’our table ; they must have slipped, without 
3’our noticing them, between the case and the wall.’ 

“ ‘ You will soon get 3"our mone3’. Monsieur Raphael,’ 
said the good mother, putting her head from between the 
curtains, ‘ and I can veiy well lend 3^ou some till then.’ 

“‘Oh, Pauline!’ I cried, pressing her hand, ‘I 
would I were rich.’ 

“ ‘ Bah ! wh3"?’ she said with roguish air. Her hand 
trembled in mine and answered to the beatings of 
my heart ; she quickty withdrew it and began to ex- 
amine the palm of mine. ‘ You will marr3" a rich 
woman,’ she said ; ‘ but she will make 3^ou unhappy. 
Ah, my God, she will kill you ! I am sure of it.’ In 
her startled cr3^ there seemed a sort of belief in the 
foolish superstitions of her mother. 


166 


The Magic Shin. 


“ ‘ You are very credulous, Pauline/ 

“ ‘ Oh, it is certain ! ’ she cried, looking at me with 
terror in her eyes ; ‘ the woman you will love will kill 
you ! ’ She took a brush and began to moisten her 
colors, showing signs of strong emotion. At that mo- 
ment I would gladly have believed in her fancies. A 
man is never altogether miserable if he is superstitious. 
Superstition means hope. I went up to my room, and 
there beheld two noble five-franc pieces, whose pres- 
ence seemed to me inexplicable. I went to sleep en- 
deavoring to remember my expenditures and account 
for this unlooked-for treasure. The next day Pauline 
came to me as I was preparing to go out to hire the 
box at the theatre. 

‘ Perhaps ten francs is not enough,’ she said, blush- 
ing ; ‘ my mother has sent me up with this. Take it, 
take it.’ She laid fifteen francs on my table and tried 
to run away, but I prevented her. Admiration dried 
the tears that came to my e^^es. 

“ ‘ Pauline,’ I said, ‘ you are indeed an angel. This 
loan is less precious to me than the modesty of feeling 
with which you offer it. I have desired a rich and ele- 
gant and titled wife ; alas, at this moment I wish I had 
millions that I might marry a 3’oung girl like you, poor 
in money and rich in heart, and renounce the fatal pas- 
sion which will kill me ; in that prediction you may be 
right.’ 

“ ‘ Enough, enough ! ’ she cried, as she ran away, and 
I heard her bird-like voice with its pretty trills echoing 
up the staircase. ‘ She is happy, indeed, not to love,’ 
I thought, remembering the tortures I had suffered for 
the last few months. Pauline’s fifteen francs proved 


The Magic Skin. 


167 


very valuable to me. Fedora, dreading the emanations 
of the great unwashed at the theatre to which we were 
going, regretted that she had brought no bouquet; I 
got her some flowers, and gave her therewith my life 
and fortune. I felt both remorse and pleasure in giving 
her a bouquet whose price revealed to me the cost of 
superficial gallantry in the world of fashion. Presently, 
however, she complained of the rather strong odor of a 
Mexican jasmine ; then she felt a violent disgust at the 
vulgar theatre, and the hard seats ; she reproached me 
for bringing her there ; although I was beside her, she 
wished to leave, and did leave. To have endured sleep- 
less nights, to have spent two months’ means of living 
and yet not to have pleased her ! Never did she seem, 
evil genius that she was, more gracious or more un- 
feeling. As we returned to the house seated together 
in a narrow coupe, I felt her breath, I touched her per- 
fumed glove, I saw distinctlj^ the treasures of her beauty, 
I inhaled the sweet fragrance of the iris, — all of woman 
and yet no woman at all. At that moment a ray of 
light helped me to look into the depths of that mys- 
terious life. I suddenly remembered a book recently 
published by a poet, a true artistic conception thrown 
into the figure of Pol3’cles. I fancied I saw the monster, 
sometimes as an officer conquering a fiery horse, some- 
times as a young girl at her toilet who drives a lover to 
despair, or again as a lover who breaks the heart of 
some good and modest virgin. Finding no other way 
to prevail with Fedora, I told her the fantastic tale ; but 
not a glimmer of her resemblance to this weird poetry 
crossed her mind ; she laughed at it heartily, like a child 
at the Arabian Nights. 


168 


The Magic Skin, 


“ When I left her and returned home, I told myself 
that since Fedora resisted the love of a man of my age 
and the contagious warmth of a soul that sought com- 
munion with hers, there must be some mystery that 
withheld her. Perhaps, like Lady Delacour, she was 
the victim of cancer. Her life was assuredl}^ all artificial. 
The very thought chilled me. Then I formed a plan at 
once the most matter-oLfact and the most insensate that 
lover ever dreamed of. To examine Fedora personally, 
just as I had now studied her intellectually, I resolved 
to pass a night, unknown to her, in her chamber. This 
is how I accomplished the enterprise, the thought of 
which consumed my soul as a desire of vengeance eats 
the heart of a Corsican monk. On her reception days 
Fedora received so large a number of guests that no 
particular notice was taken of how they came in or went 
out. Certain of being able to remain in the house with- 
out causing scandal, I awaited the next reception even- 
ing with impatience. As I dressed myself I put a little 
penknife into my pocket in default of a stiletto. If 
found upon me, that innocent literary implement could 
aflbrd no ground for suspicion, and not knowing where 
my romantic resolution might lead me, I wished to go 
armed. When the salons began to fill I went into the 
bedroom to examine it carefully, and found to my joy 
that the outside shutters and blinds were carefully closed. 
Then I detached the heavy curtains from their loopings 
and drew them across the window ; I risked much in 
making these preparations, but I had coldly calculated 
and accepted all dangers. Toward midnight, I hid 
behind a curtain in the embrasure of a window, trusting 
that neither my cramped position nor an unexpected 


The Magic Shin. 


169 


cough or sneeze would betray me. The white silk and 
muslin of the curtains fell before me in broad folds like 
the pipes of an organ, and in them I cut tiny loopholes 
with my penknife so as to see clearly. I heard the 
sounds in the salon, the laughter of the guests, and the 
rising and falling of their voices. Presently a few men 
came to take their hats, which were placed on a bureau 
near to where I stood. As thej’ brushed the curtains I 
trembled, fearing that in their haste to get away they 
might look for their hats behind the curtain. The fact 
that no such misfortune occurred, made me augur well 
for my enterprise. 

“ Only about five or six intimate friends how remained 
with the countess, and these she invited to take tea in 
the Gothic boudoir adjoining the bedroom. The calum- 
nies and evil-speaking for which society reserves the 
little belief that remains to it were now mingled with 
epigrams and witty opinions, and the rattle of cups and 
spoons. Rastignac in particular excited bursts of 
laughter by his cutting speeches. ‘ Monsieur de Ras- 
tignac,* said Fedora, laughing, ‘ is a man with whom it 
is dangerous to quarrel.* ‘ That’s very true,’ he an- 
swered, candidly ; ‘ I have always been right in my 
hatreds — and in my friendships,’ he added. ‘ My ene- 
mies serve me as well, perhaps, as my friends. I have 
made a special study of modern jargons and the natural 
artifices which people employ for attack and defence 
both. The eloquence of statesmen is perfected by social 
training. Have you a friend without any mind ? talk 
about his uprightness and candor. Is the book of that 
other man intolerably dull? call it a conscientious labor ; 
if ill-written, praise its ideas. Another man is faithless, 


170 


The Magic Skin. 


without constancy and fails j^ou at every turn ; bah ! 
he is seductive, winning, charming. As for j^our ene- 
mies, you can bring both the dead and living against 
them ; you reverse the whole order of your remarks ; 
and you are quite as perceptive of their defects as j'ou 
were of the virtues of your friends. This application of 
an opera-glass to the moral eye is the secret of conver- 
sation and the whole art of a courtier. Not to use it is 
to fight, unarmed, adversaries who are cased in iron like 
knights-banneret. I use it. I may abuse it sometimes. 
But I am respected, — I and m3" friends ; and it is well 
known that my sword is as good as my tongue.’ 

“ One of Fedora’s most fervent admirers, a 3"Oung man 
whose impertinence was actuallj" celebrated, for he made 
it an element in his success, picked up the glove which 
Rastignac so contemptuously threw down. He spoke 
among other things of me, and praised my talents and 
personal qualities immenselj". Rastignac had forgotten 
that form of malicious attack. The sardonic praise de- 
ceived Fedora, who immolated me without pity ; to 
amuse her friends she told my secrets, m3" desires, and 
my hopes. ‘ He has a career before him,’ said Ras- 
tignac. ‘ Perhaps some day he will prove to be a man 
able to take a cruel revenge ; his talents are equal to his 
courage, and I think people are very foolish to attack 
him ; he has a memory — ’ 

“ ‘ — and writes memoirs,’ said the countess. 

“‘Memoirs of a false countess, madame,’ said Ras- 
tignac. ‘ To write them he needs another sort of 
courage.’ 

“ I think he has a great deal of courage,’ she replied ; 
‘he is faithful to me.’ 


The Magic Skin. 


171 


“ A mad temptation possessed me to appear suddenly 
before them, like Banquo’s ghost in Macbeth. I had 
lost a mistress, but I had gained a friend. But again 
love breathed into my mind one of those cowardlj’, sub- 
tile paradoxes with which we love to cheat our pain. 
If Fedora loves me, I thought, surely she is right to 
conceal her affection with a meriy jest. Soon my im- 
pertinent rival, the last remaining guest, rose to leave 
her. ‘ What, going alread}’ ? ’ she said, in the persuasive 
tone I knew so well, and which made me quiver. ‘ You 
will not give me another moment ? 3^ou cannot sacrifice 
any of your pleasures to me ? ’ He went awa3\ ‘ Ah ! ’ 
she exclaimed, 3’awning, ‘ how tiresome they all are ! ’ 
then she pulled a bellrope violentl3^, and the sound of 
the bell rang through the apartment. 

“ The countess entered her bedroom humming a pas- 
sage in the Pria che spunti. No one had ever heard 
her sing, and the fact had given rise to certain odd 
conjectures. It was said that she had promised her 
first lover, who adored her talent and was jealous of her 
in his grave, to let no one enjo3’ a pleasure that once 
was his alone. I stretched every faculty of my being 
to catch the sounds. Note by note the voice rose 
higher; Fedora grew animated, the qualities of her 
throat developed, and the melody became almost a 
thing divine. A lucid clearness, a truth of tone and 
something harmonious and vibrant which penetrated, 
stirred, and excited the heart, was in this carefully con- 
cealed organ. Musicians are nearly always love-in- 
spired. She who was singing thus must surely know 
how to love. The beauty of her voice was one mystery 
the more in this mysterious woman. I saw her then as 


172 


The Magic Skin, 


I now see you; she seemed listening to herself and 
drinking in a sensuous delight that came from her own 
being ; it was as though she felt the joys of love. 

“ She stood before the fireplace when she ended the 
rondo ; but as the sounds died awaj" her face changed, 
the features lost their composure and expressed weariness 
and fatigue. The mask had fallen ; actress that she was, 
the play was over. And 3"et the sort of blight imprinted 
on her beauty by the cessation of the part she played, or 
b}^ the lassitude of this particular evening, was not with- 
out its charm. Here is the true woman at last, I thought. 
Standing before the fire she placed her foot, as though 
to warm it, on the fender, took off her gloves, unfastened 
her bracelets, and drew a gold chain on which a jewelled 
smelling-bottle was hung, over her head. I felt an in- 
describable pleasure in watching her graceful move- 
ments, like those of a cat as she washes and combs her 
fur in the sunshine. She gazed into the mirror before 
her, and said aloud in a tone of ill-humor : ‘ I did not 
look well to-night, m3" complexion is fading frightfull3". 
I ought to give up this life of dissipation and go to bed 
earlier — Where can Justine be?’ She rang again, 
and her maid came hastily into the room. Where did 
the woman keep herself? She came by a secret door. 
My imagination had long suspected this invisible ser- 
vant, a tall, dark, well-made girl. ‘ Did Madame ring? ’ 
she asked. ‘Twice,’ replied Fedora; ‘are 3*ou going 
to pretend deafness ? ’ ‘I was making Madame’s almond 
milk.’ Justine knelt down, untied her mistress’s san- 
dals and removed the shoes, while Fedora lay carelessly 
back in an armchair beside the fire, yawning and passing 
her fingers through her hair. All was natural and easy 


The Magic Skin, 


173 


in her movements, and nothing revealed any secret cause 
of suffering, such as I had suspected. 

“ ‘ George is in love,’ she said suddenly. ‘ I shall 
dismiss him : he has drawn the curtains again to-night. 
What is he thinking of ? ’ The blood flowed to my heart 
at the remark, but it was not long a question of curtains. 

“ ‘ Life is very empty,’ said the countess. ‘ Ah, take 
care ! don’t scratch me as you did yesterday. Look,’ 
showing a little polished knee, ‘ I bear the marks of it 
yet.’ She put her naked feet into velvet slippers edged 
with swansdown, and unfastened her dress, while Justine 
made ready to brush her hair. 

“ ‘ You ought to marry, madame, and have children,’ 
said the maid. ‘ Children ! they would put an end to 
me at once,’ cried Fedora. ‘ A husband ! Where is 
the man to whom I could — Was my hair becomingly 
arranged to-night? ’ — ‘ No, not entirely.’ — ‘ What a 
fool you are.’ — ‘ Nothing suits 3*011 less than to crepe 
3’our hair,’ replied Justine ; ‘ thick, smooth curls are 
far more becoming to you.’ — ‘ You think so ? ’ — ‘ Wh}*, 
yes, madame ; fluffy, cr§ped hair is only suited to 
blondes” — “Marry? no, no! Marriage is a traffic 
for which I was not born.’ 

“What a terrible scene for a lover. This solitary 
woman, without relations or friends, atheist in love, 
unbelieving of sentiment, without the need, so natural 
to all human beings, of heart intercourse, and 3*et 
through some feeble sense of it reduced to talk with 
her waiting- woman in vapid, empty phrases — ah! I 
pitied her. Justine unlaced her. I watched her with 
curiosity as the last veil was removed. The sight 
dazzled me ; through the linen of her chemise, and by 


174 


The Magic Skin, 


the light of the wax candles, her white and rosy flesh 
shone like a silver statue beneath a wrapping of gauze. 
No, there was no imperfection to make her dread the 
eyes of love. The mistress seated herself before the 
fire, silent and thoughtful, while the maid lit the taper 
in the alabaster lamp suspended near the bed. Justine 
went to fetch a warming-pan, and prepared the bed ; 
then, after long and minute services which revealed the 
countess’s deep veneration for her own person, she 
assisted her mistress into bed, and soon after left the 
room. 

“The countess turned several times; she was evi- 
dentl}" agitated ; she sighed, — a slight sound escaped 
her lips, and was perceptible to my ear, indicating 
impatience ; then she stretched her hand toward the 
table, took a vial containing a brown liquid, and poured 
a few drops into her milk before she drank it. At 
length, after a few distressful sighs, she cried out, 

‘ My God ! ’ The exclamation, and above all, the 
accent with which she uttered it, broke my heart. 
Little by little she ceased to move. I was frightened, 
but presently I heard the steady regular breathing of a 
person asleep. Then I parted the rustling silk curtains, 
left my position and went to the foot of the bed, where 
I stood looking at her with indefinable feelings. She 
was exquisite as she lay there. One arm was thrown 
above her head like a child ; her soft and tranquil face 
surrounded by laces, expressed a sweetness that im- 
passioned me. Presuming too much upon my own 
strength, I had not expected the tortures I now en- 
dured, — to be so near and yet so far from her ! ‘ My 

God ! ’ that shred of an unknown thought, which was 


The Magic Skin, 


175 


all the light I was destined to carry away with me, had 
suddenly changed my ideas about Fedora. The cry, 
full of deepest meaning, or signifying nothing, hollow 
or replete with real things, might express either happi- 
ness or suffering, a pain of the body or a sorrow of 
mind. Was it imprecation or prayer; memory or 
hope ; regret or fear? A lifetime was in those words, — 
a life of indigence, or of wealth, possibly of crime. 
The enigma hidden beneath that beautiful semblance 
of a woman returned to mind ; Fedora might be ex- 
plained in so many ways that she became inexplicable. 
The capricious breath which came through her teeth, 
sometimes faintly, sometimes rhythmically, solemnly or 
gayly, seemed a sort of language to which thoughts and 
feelings might be attached. I hoped to surprise her 
secrets by penetrating her sleep ; I dreamed her dreams, 
I floated in a thousand directions, with conflicting 
thoughts and many judgments. Looking at that ex- 
quisite face, so calm and pure, it was impossible to 
believe that the woman had no heart. I resolved on 
a last effort. I would tell her m3" life, m3" love, my 
sacrifices ; perhaps I should thus awake her pity, and 
win a tear from eyes that never wept. I was thus 
placing m3^ hopes once more on a final attempt to win 
her, when the noises in the street warned me that da3" 
was breaking. For a moment the thought came to me, 
of Fedora waking in my arms ; it tyrannized cruelly 
over me, but I wished to resist it, and I fled from the 
room, taking no precautions to avoid a noise. Fortu- 
natel3% I found a door which opened on a little stair- 
case ; the key was in the lock ; I closed it violently 
after me, and without knowing or caring whether I 


176 The Magic Skin, 

were seen, I sprang down to the street in a few 
bounds. 

“ Two days later an author was to read a comedy to 
a party of guests in the countess’s salon. I went with 
the intention of remaining to the last and proffering 
a rather singular request. I wished her to give me the 
whole of the next evening, and to close her doors so 
that we might be wholly alone. But when the company 
had left and I found myself alone with her, my heart 
failed me. The very ticking of the clock terrified me. 
It was a quarter to twelve. ‘ If I do not speak,’ I 
thought, ‘ then I had better break my skull against the 
corner of the chimne^^-piece.’ I allowed myself three 
minutes’ respite : the three minutes went by ; I did not 
break my skull against the marble; my heart had 
grown heavy, like a sponge as it fills with water. 

“‘How lively you are,’ she said to me. ‘Ah, 
madame,’ I answered, ‘ if onl}’ you could understand 
me ! ’ — ‘ Why, what is the matter ? ’ she replied ; ‘ you 
are quite pale.’ — ‘ I hesitate to ask a favor of 3’ou.’ 
She made an encouraging gesture, and I asked for the 
interview. ‘ Willingl^^’ she said ; ‘ but why not speak 
to me now ? ’ — ‘I will not deceive 3^ou,’ I said ; ‘ I want 
to pass the whole evening with you, as though we were 
brother and sister. Do not fear ; I know 3^our antip- 
athies ; 3"ou understand me well enough to feel sure 
I will ask nothing that shall displease 3^ou, — besides, a 
bold man would never do as I am doing. You have 
offered me friendship, 3’ou are kind, and full of indul- 
gence — well, to-morrow I intend to bid 3’ou farewell. 
Don’t retract ! ’ I cried, for I saw she was about tc 
speak ; then I rapidl3^ left the room. 


The Magic Skin. 


177 


“ It was in Ma}" last, about eight o’clock in the even- 
ing, that Fedora received me alone in her Gothic bou- 
doir. I did not tremble then, I felt sure of happiness ; 
either my mistress should be mine, or I would escape 
into the arms of death. I saw and condemned the 
cowardice of my love. A man is strong when he ad- 
mits to himself his weakness. 

“ Fedora was lying on a sofa with her feet on a 
cushion, dressed in blue cashmere. An Eastern he- 
re tta — the same that many painters give to the early 
Jews — added a strange piquancy to her attractions. 
The fugitive charm which now attached to her whole 
person seems to prove that we are at times new beings, 
apart from our previous selves, with no likeness to the 
I of the past, or the I of the future. I had never seen 
her so glorious. 

“ ‘ Do 3’ou know,’ she said, laughing, ‘ that you have 
piqued my curiosity ? ’ 

“ ‘ I will not betray it,’ I answered coldly, sitting 
down beside her, and taking a hand which she resigned 
to me. ‘ You sing delightfull3\’ 

“‘You have never heard me!’ she cried, with a 
gesture of surprise. 

“ ‘ I will prove to j’ou that I have, if necessary. Is 
that delightful voice of 3’ours another mystery? Don’t 
be uneasy" ; I will not tr}" to penetrate it.’ 

“We talked together familiarly for more than an 
hour. Though I took the tone and manner and ges- 
tures of a man to whom Fedora could refuse nothing, I 
treated hei’ with lover-like respect. She granted me 
the favor of kissing her hand, which she ungloved with 
dainty motions ; I was so wrapped in the illusion in 
12 


178 


The Magic Skin. 


which I struggled to believe, that my soul seemed to 
melt and pour itself into that kiss. Fedora allowed 
me to caress and fondle her with surprising willingness. 
But do not think me a fool ; had I gone one step be- 
3’ond these brotherly" endearments, I should have felt 
the claws of the cat. For more than ten minutes we 
remained silent. I looked at her with admiration; 
lending her the charms to which in truth she gave the 
lie. At that moment she was mine, mine alone; I 
possessed her intuitively ; I enveloped her with my 
desire, I held her, clasped her, wedded her in imagina- 
tion. I vanquished Fedora b^" the power of a magnetic 
fascination ; and I have always regretted that I did not 
then bring her wholly under subjection ; but at that 
moment I sought, not the mere woman, but a soul, a 
life, an ideal and perfect happiness, the glorious dream 
in which we do not long believe. 

“ ‘ Madame,' I said, feeling that the last hour of my 
intoxication had come, ‘ listen to me. I love j^ou ; 3’ou 
know it ; I have told it to 3'ou in a thousand waj's, and 
you ought to have understood me. I would not seek 
3’our love b}^ the airs and graces of a dandy, nor with 
the flattery and importunit}' of fools like those who sur- 
round you, and therefore you have failed to comprehend 
me. How man}' woes have I not endured through 
you, though you were innocent of them ! But 3'ou shall 
judge me now. There are two poverties in this world, 
madame, — one that goes boldly through the streets in 
rags, like another Diogenes, feeding on the barest 
necessaries, reducing existence to its simplest wants ; 
a poverty that is perhaps happier than wealth, at any 
rate more careless, grasping the world at a point 


The Magic Shin, 


179 


where other men will have none of it. Then comes the 
other poverty, of luxury, — the hidalgo’s poverty, pau- 
perism behind a title, in a white waistcoat and yellow 
gloves, which drives in carriages and has not a penny 
to save a fortune. One is the poverty of the people, the 
other the poverty of swindlers, of kings, and men of 
talent. I am neither people nor king nor swindler, 
possibly not even a man of talent ; call me an excep- 
tion. name requires me to die rather than beg — 
Do not fear, madame, I am rich enough to-day ; I 
possess all that I need of earth.’ I said this observing 
that her face assumed the cold expression with which 
people listen to the demands of a visitor asking money 
for a charity. ‘ Do you remember the day you went to 
the Gj^mnase without me, not expecting to see me 
there ? ’ She made a sign of assent. ‘ I had spent my 
last penny to take you. Do you remember our walk in 
the Jardin des Plantes? the coach which I hired cost 
my whole substance.’ Then I told her my sacrifices, I 
pictured my life, not as I am telling it to you now in 
the intoxication of wine, but in the noble intoxication 
of the heart. My passion overflowed in ardent lan- 
guage, in flashes of feeling, since forgotten and which 
neither art nor memory could ever reproduce. It was 
not the cold narration of a despised lover ; my love, in 
all the strength and beauty of its hope, inspired the 
words which pleaded for life with the cry of a lacerated 
soul ; my tones were those of the dying on a battle-field 
offering their last prayer — 

“She wept. I stopped short. Good God ! her tears 
came from the paltry emotion we bu}^ at a theatre for a 
few francs ; my success was that of a good actor I 


180 


The Magic Skin, 


“ ‘ If I had known/ she said. 

“ ‘ Say no more/ I exclaimed ; ‘ at this moment I love 
you enough to kill you — ’ She tried to seize the bell- 
rope. I laughed aloud. ‘ Call no one I ' I cried ; ‘ I will 
leave you to live out your days in peace. It would be 
a paltry form of hatred to kill you. Fear nothing, I 
have passed a whole night standing at the foot of your 
bed — ' 

“‘Monsieur! 'she said, blushing; but after that 
first impulse of the modest}" which all women pos- 
sess, even the most callous, she threw a contemptuous 
glance upon me and said, ‘ You must have found it 
very cold.’ 

“‘Do you think, madame, that your beauty is so 
precious to me?’ I answered, guessing the thoughts 
that moved her. ‘ Your face is to me the promise of 
a soul more beautiful than your personal beauty. Ah, 
madame, the men who only see a woman in woman- 
hood can buy odalisques worthy of the sultan’s harem, 
and be happy at a low price. But I have been ambi- 
tious ; I wanted to live heart to heart with you who 
have no heart, — I know it now. If ever you belong to 
a man I will kill him. But no, you might love him, 
and his death would grieve you — Oh, how I suffer ! ’ 
I cried. 

“ ‘ If a promise can console you,’ she said, laughing, 
‘ I can assure you that I shall belong to no man.’ 

“‘Then,’ I said, interrupting her, ‘you insult God, 
and you will be punished. Some day, lying on that 
sofa, unable to bear either light or noise, condemned 
to live as it were in a tomb, you will suffer untold 
agony. When you seek the reason of your slow, relent- 


The Magic Skin. 


181 


less pains remember the sufferings 3'oii have so lavishly 
dealt out to others. You have sown curses, and they 
will return to 3’ou in hatred. We who have suffered 
are the true judges, the executioners of a justice which 
governs here below, trampling underfoot that of men, 
but lower than that of God.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ she said, laughing, ‘ I am guilty indeed for 
not loving you! Is it my fault? No, I do not love 
j^ou ; 3"ou are a man, and that is enough for me. I am 
happ3’ in being alone ; why should I change my life — 
call it selfish if 3'ou will — for the caprices of a master? 
Marriage is a sacrament, in virtue of which we ob- 
tain nothing but a communion of sorrows. Besides, 
children annoy me. Did I not loyall}' warn 3’ou of my 
nature ? Why are 3’ou not content with my friendship ? 
I would gladly soothe the suffering I have unwittingl3’ 
caused you b3" not guessing the cost to 3’ou of 3’our poor 
little francs ; I appreciate 3’our sacrifices ; but onl3" love 
can pay for such devotion, such delicate attentions, 
and I love you so little that this scene affects me 
disagreeably.’ 

“ ‘ I feel how ridiculous I have made myself, forgive 
me,’ I said gentl3' ; ‘ I love 3’ou enough to listen with 
delight to the cruel words you are sa3’ing to me. Oh, 
would that I could write my love in my heart’s blood.’ 

“ ‘ All men use those classic phrases on such occa- 
sions,’ she said, still laughing. ‘But it seems to be 
rather difficult to die at a woman’s feet, for I meet the 
dead men ever3’where. It is midnight; allow me to 
retire.’ 

“ ‘ And in two hours 3’ou will exclaim, as 3’Ou did the 
night before last, “ My God!” ’ I said to her. 


182 


The Magic Skin. 


“‘Night before last!’ she cried. ‘True, I was 
thinking of my broker ; I had forgotten to tell him to 
sell out certain stocks, and in the course of the day they 
had gone down.’ 

“ I looked at her with eyes that flashed with rage. 
Ah! sometimes a crime ma}" be a poem, — I felt it. 
Familiar with such passionate adjurations, she had 
already forgotten my words and prayers. 

“ ‘ Shall you marry a peer of France ? ’ I asked coldly. 

“ ‘ Perhaps ; if he is a duke.’ 

“ I took my hat and bowed to her. 

“ ‘Permit me to accompany 3’ou to my outer door,* 
she said, with piercing satire in her tone and gestures 
and in the attitude of her head. 

“ ‘ Madame ! ’ 

“ ‘ Monsieur? ’ 

“ ‘ Never will I see 3"Ou again.’ 

“ ‘ I hope not,’ she answered, bowing her head with 
an insolent expression. 

“ ‘ You wish to be a duchess,’ I resumed, driven on- 
ward by a sort of frenz3^ which her gesture roused in 
my heart. ‘ You crave titles and honors. Well then, 
let me love you ; tell m3' pen to speak, my voice 
to sound for you alone ; be the mainspring of my life, 
my star ! and take me for a husband when I am min- 
ister and peer of France and duke. I can be all, all, if 
3'ou but will it.’ 

“ ‘You certainly emplo3'ed your time well in a law- 
3^er’s office,’ she said, smiling ; ‘ 3'our plea has plenty 
of ardor.’ 

“ ‘ To 3^ou the present,’ I cried, ‘ to me the future. 
I lose a woman, 3^ou lose fame and a famil3'. Time is 


183 


The Magic Skin* 

big with vengeance ; it will bring 3’ou loss of beauty 
and a solitary death, but to me glor^^ ! ’ 

“ ‘ Tliank you for that finale ! ’ she said, smothering 
a yawn, and showing bj" her attitude the desire that I 
should leave her sight. 

“ The words silenced me. I threw my hatred in one 
look upon her and fied the house. 

“ What was now before me? Either I must forget 
Fedora, cure m}- madness, return to m3' studious solitude, 
or die. I compelled myself to toil ; I resolved to finish 
the works in my brain. For fifteen days I never left 
m3' room, and spent both da3’s and nights in stud3% In 
spite of my courage and the inspirations of despair, I 
worked with difl3cult3' and by fits and starts. The 
muse had fled. I could not drive away the brilliant 
and mocking phantom of Fedora. Behind each thought 
of my mind lurked another sickl3' thought, a gnawing 
desire, terrible as remorse. I imitated the anchorites 
of the Thebaid. If I did not pra3' like them, like them 
I lived in a desert. I delved into m3' soul, as they 
among the rocks ; and I would gladly have worn spikes 
about my loins, piercing the flesh with every point, could 
I have conquered m3" mental anguish by ph3'sical pain. 

“ One evening Pauline came into my room. ‘ You 
are killing yourself ! ' she said ; ^ you ought to go out 
and see your friends.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, Pauline, 3"Our prediction is coming true ! 
Fedora kills me; I wish to die. I cannot bear my 
life an3’ longer.’ 

“ ‘ Is there but one woman in the world? ’ she said, 
smiling. ^ Why do 3-011 put such infinite troubles into 
this short life?’ 


184 


The Magic Skin. 


“ I looked at her stupidly. She left me ; I did not 
even notice that she did so. I had heard her voice 
without understanding the meaning of her words. Be- 
fore long I was obliged to leave the house to carry the 
manuscript of the memoirs to my literary employer. 
Sunken in my own thoughts, I did not perceive how 
it was that I lived without money. I was only con- 
scious that the four hundred and fifty francs now due 
me would sufiSce to pay my debts. I went to get them, 
and met Rastignac, who thought me changed and 
emaciated. ‘What hospital are you just out of?’ he 
cried. 

“ ‘ That woman is killing me ! ’ I answered. ‘ I can 
neither despise her nor forget her.’ 

“‘Better kill her!’ he answered, laughing; ‘and 
then perhaps you won’t think of her again.’ 

“‘I have thought of it,’ I said. ‘But though at 
times I comfort my soul with the thought of crime, I 
know I am unable to commit it. Fedora is a glorious 
monster, who would pray for mercy, and I am no 
Othello.’ 

“ ‘She is like every other woman whom we cannot 
get,’ said Rastignac, interrupting me. 

“ ‘ I am mad ! ’ I cried ; ‘ sometimes I feel the mad- 
ness surging in my brain. My thoughts are like phan- 
toms ; they dance about me, but I cannot seize them. 
I prefer death to such a life as this. I seek a way — 
the best way — to end the struggle. It is no longer a 
question of the actual, living, breathing Fedora, the 
Fedora of the faubourg Saint-Honore, but of my Fedora, 
of her who is there,’ I cried, striking my brow. ‘ What 
think you of opium?’ — ‘Bah! horrid suffering!’ an- 


The Magic SMn. 


185 


swered Rastignac. — ‘ Charcoal ? ’ — ^ Vulgar ! ’ — ^ The 
Seine ? * — ‘ Those slabs at the Morgue are filthy.’ — ‘ A 
pistol-shot? ’ — ‘ If it misses, you ’re disfigured for life. 
Listen to me,’ he continued ; ‘ like all other young men, 
I have reflected about suicide. Which of us has not 
killed himself two or three times before he was thirty? 
I see no better way than to use up life by excesses. 
Plunge into the deepest dissipation, and either 3'ou or 
your passion will perish. Intemperance, my dear fellow, 
is the king of deaths ; does n’t it command apoplexy, 
and is n’t apoplexy a pistol-shot that never misses ? 
The orgies of physical enjoyment are the small change 
of opium. Excesses that force us to drink madly are 
a mortal challenge to life. The Duke of Clarence’s 
butt of malmsey tastes better than Seine mud. Each 
time we go under the table is n’t it the same as char- 
coal in little doses, — a slow suffocation? If the 
watchman picks us up in the street and lays us on 
the cold beds at the guard-house, don’t we enjoy all 
the pleasures of the Morgue, minus the swollen stom- 
achs, — blue, green, and every color, — and plus a 
knowledge of the crisis? Ah,’ he cried, ‘my kind of 
suicide is n’t the vulgar death of a bankrupt grocer ! 
Such men have brought the river into disrepute ; they 
fling themselves into it to touch the hearts of their 
creditors. In j^onr place, I should try to die with ele- 
gance. If 3^ou want to create a new st3’le of death by 
fighting this sort of duel with life, I ’ll go into it with 
jrou. I am annoyed and disappointed. That Alsatian 
I was to marry has six toes on her left foot. I could n’t 
live with a woman who has a foot with six toes ; people 
would find it out, and I should be ridiculous. Besides^ 


186 


The Magic Skin, 


it seems she has onl}’ eighteen thousand francs a 3^ear, 
— the fortune diminishes and the toes increase; the 
devil take them ! Let us lead this wild life, and happL 
ness ma}^ come by the wa3\* 

“ Rastignac’s vehemence carried me off my feet. 
The plan had too many seductions ; it awakened too 
many hopes. The coloring of the picture was too po- 
etic not to fascinate a poet. 

“ ‘ But the money? ’ I said. 

“ ‘ Have n’t you got that four hundred and fifty 
francs ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes ; but I owe them to my tailor and to my 
landlady.’ 

“‘Pay your tailor? You’ll never be anything in 
this world, — not even a minister.’ 

“ ‘ But what could we do with such a beggarly 
sum? ’ 

“‘Play it,’ he answered. I shuddered. ‘Ah,’ he 
added, observing m3" reluctance. ‘ You sa3" you are 
willing to plunge into what I call the Dissipational 
System^ and yet you are afraid of a green table- 
cloth ! ’ 

“ ‘ Hear me,’ I said ; ‘ I promised my father never 
to set foot in a gambling-house. That promise is not 
onlj" sacred to me, but I have myself an invincible 
horror of such places. Take my money and go alone. 
While 3’ou are playing it I will put my affairs in order 
and then go to your rooms and wait for you.’ 

“ That, my dear fimile, is the tale of my ruin. Let 
a 3"oung man meet with a woman who does not love 
him, or a woman who loves him too well and his life is 
forever spoiled. Happiness exhausts our vigor, un- 


The Magic Skin* 


187 


happiness engulfs our virtue. I re-entered the Hotel 
Saint-Quentin, and gazed round the attic-room where 
I had lived the chaste life of a scholar, — a life that 
might perhaps have been long and honorable, and 
which I ought never to have quitted for the passionate 
existence which had dragged me down to the abj’ss. 
Pauline found me in an attitude of despair. 

“ ‘ What is the matter? ^ she asked. 

“ I rose quietly and counted out the money which I 
owed to her mother, adding the rent of my room for 
the coming six months. She watched me in terror. 
‘ I am going to leave you, dear Pauline.' ‘ I thought 
so,' she cried. ‘Hear me, my child, I do not say that 
I shall not return ; keep my cell ready for six months ; 
if I am not back by the 15th of November you are to 
inherit all. This sealed manuscript,' I continued, show- 
ing her a package, ‘ is a copy of my great work on the 
Will which you are to deposit in the Bibliotheque du 
Roi. As to all else you are to do what you like 
with it.' 

“She gave me a look which weighed heavily on my 
heart. Pauline stood there as my living conscience. 

“ ‘ Shall I have no more lessons?' she said, pointing 
to the piano. I did not answer. 

“ ‘Will 3’ou write to me? ' 

“ ‘ Adieu, Pauline.' I drew her gently to me ; then 
on that brow of love, pure as the snow before it touches 
earth, I laid the kiss of a brother, of an old man. She 
left me quickly. I did not wish to see Madame Gau- 
din. I put my key in its usual place and went away. 
As I passed through the rue de Cluny I heard the 
light step of a woman behind me. 


188 


The Magic Skin. 


“ ‘ I have worked you this purse ; surelj’ you will not 
refuse it?" said Pauline. By the dim light of a street 
lantern I saw a tear in her eye, and I sighed. Driven 
perhaps by the same thought we hastened to separate, 
like persons fleeing from the plague. 

“ The life of dissipation to which I now de\X)ted my- 
self was curiously represented by the room where I 
awaited Rastignac’s return with stern indifference. On 
the centre of the mantle-shelf stood a clock surmounted 
by a Venus sitting on a tortoise, in the angle of whose 
arm was a half-smoked cigar. Elegant pieces of furni- 
ture, love-gifts no doubt, stood here and there. Shabbj’’ 
slippers were tossed upon a silken sofa. The com- 
fortable arm-chair in which I sat bore as many scars 
as an old soldier; it held out its ragged arms, and 
exhibited on its back the incrusted pomades and hair- 
oils of the heads of friends. Opulence and poverty 
were bluntly mated on the bed, on the walls, ever}^- 
where. You might have thought it a Neapolitan pal- 
ace inhabited by lazzaroni. It was in fact the room of 
a gambler or a reprobate, whose luxury is all personal, 
who lives by sensations and cares nothing for the de- 
cency and fitness of things. The picture is not with- 
out its artistic side. Life leaps up in these tawdry rags 
and spangles, unexpected, incomplete as it is in realitj^ 
but electrifying, fantastic, eager, as in a halt where the 
marauder pillages all he wants. A volume of Byron, 
with half its pages torn out, served to light the few 
fagots of the young man who risks a thousand francs at 
play and has not the wherewithal to pay for a log of 
wood, who drives his tilbuiy, but does not own a decent 
shirt. Tomorrow, perhaps, a countess, or an actress, or 


The Magic Skin, 


189 


a lucky game of ecarte, will give him the wardrobe of a 
king. Here a wax-candle is stuck in a tin match-box ; 
there lies the portrait of some woman deprived of its 
chased gold frame. How can a young man eager for 
emotions renounce the delights of a life so rich in con- 
trasts, and which gives him the pleasures of war in times 
of peace ? I was well-nigh asleep when Rastignac kicked 
open the door and rushed in, cr^dng, — 

“ ‘ Victory ! we can die at our ease ! ’ 

“ He showed me his hat full of gold, which he placed on 
the table, and we danced round it like two cannibals with 
a prey to be eaten, — howling, stamping, skipping, strik- 
ing blows at each other with our fists that would have stag- 
gered a rhinoceros, and singing praises to the pleasures 
of the world held for us within the compass of that hat. 

“ ‘ Twenty-seven thousand francs ! ' cried Rastignac, 
adding some bank-bills to the heap of gold ; ‘ for most 
people that is enough to live on, but will it suffice to kill 
3'ou and me ? ’ 

“ ‘Yes, 3’es, we will die in a bath of gold. Hurrah ! * 
and we capered again. 

“We divided our gains, like heirs-at-law, coin b}" coin, 
beginning with the double napoleons, and coming down 
b}" degrees to the lesser pieces, spinning out our jo}^ as 
we cried alternatel}", ‘ Yours ! ’ ‘ Mine I ’ ‘ Mine ! ’ ‘ Yours ! ’ 
“ ‘We shall never be able to sleep,’ cried Rastignac. 
‘ Joseph, get us some punch.’ He flung a heap of gold 
to his faithful servant. ‘ Here ’s your share,’ he said ; 
‘ bury yourself if 3*ou want to.’ 

“ The next da3" I bought furniture from Lesage and 
hired the apartment where 3^ou knew me last, in the 
rue Taitbout, and got the best upholsterer in Paris to 


190 


The Magic Skin. 

decorate it. I purchased horses ; I flung m^’self into a 
whirlpool of pleasures that were hollow and real both. 
I gambled, I won and lost enormous sums, but alwa3's 
in private houses, — never in gambling-dens, for which 
I still retained m3" earty and pious horror. Little bj 
little I made acquaintances. I owed their intimac3' to 
quarrels or to that facile confidence with which we' be- 
tray our secrets in degrading compan3" ; it is, perhaps, 
by their vices that men hang best together. I circulated 
a few literary compositions which gained me credit. 
The great men of commercial literature, seeing that I was 
not a rival to be feared, praised me, — less, no doubt, for 
m3" personal merits than to anno3" their own class. I 
became a viveur (to employ the picturesque word we 
have invented for our excesses) ; I made it a matter of 
pride to kill m3"self quickl3", to surpass m3" ga3’est com- 
panions in ardor and vigor. I was alwa3’s fresh and 
elegant ; I passed for being witt3". Nothing about me 
betra3"ed the awful existence which makes a man a 
funnel, a digesting apparatus, a cheval de luxe. 

“But soon Excess appeared before me in all the 
majest3’ of its horror ; I comprehended it. Surel3" the 
prudent and orderly men who ticket the bottles in their 
cellars and leave them to their heirs have no conception 
of the theory of this broad life, nor of its normal condi- 
tion. Can you teach the poetr3" of it to provincials, to 
whom tea and opium, so prodigal of delights, are only 
two medicines? Even in Paris, the capital of thought, 
we find crude S3"barites, men unable to sustain an excess 
of pleasure, who return home wearied from a banquet, 
like those good shopkeepers who sit np to hear an opera 
of Rossini and complain of the music. They renounce 


The Magic Skin, 191 

the life at once, just as the sober man declines to eat a 
second Ruffec patty because the first gave him an indi- 
gestion. Excess is certainly an art like that of poetry, 
and needs strong natures. Before a man can grasp its 
mysteries, or taste its beauties he must, to some extent, 
study it conscientiously. Like all sciences, it is in the 
beginning repellant and prickly. Immense obstacles 
surround the high pleasures of man, — not his lesser 
enjoyment of details, but the broad system which trains 
into a habit his choicest sensations, gathers them up, 
fructifies them into a dramatic life within his life, and 
thus necessitates a vast and hurried dissipation of his 
forces. War, Power, Art are corruptions within human 
reach as powerful as Excess, and all are difficult of 
approach. But once a man has mounted the breach of 
these great mysteries, has he not reached another world ? 
Generals, statesmen, artists are all, more or less, driven 
to excesses, by the need of giving violent emotions to 
natures so far out of the common as theirs. After all, 
war is an Excess of slaugliter, just as politics are a de- 
bauch of selfish interests. All excesses are related. 
These social monsters have the alluring power of 
abysses ; they draw us to them as Saint Helena beck- 
oned Napoleon from afar; they induce vertigos, they 
fascinate, and we seek to see to their depths, we know 
not why. The secret of the infinite may be below that 
precipice ; perhaps in that abyss there is some fiattering 
discovery for man ; is he not interested first and always 
in his own being? In contrast with the paradise of his 
studious hour, and the bliss of his faculties of concep- 
tion, the weary artist seeks, like God, a seventh-day’s 
rest, or, like the Devil, the joys of hell, to balance the 


192 


The Magic Skin. 


labor of the mind with the labor of the senses. The re- 
laxation of Lord Byron could never be the chattering 
whist which delights the small capitalist; poet, he 
wanted Greece to play against a Sultan. In war, man 
becomes an exterminating angel, a species of execu- 
tioner, gigantic in purpose. Surely, some extraordinary 
spell must be upon us before we seek these awful emo- 
tions, these destroyers of our frail bodies, which sur- 
round our passions like a thorny hedge. The smoker 
writhes convulsively and suffers agony for the abuse of 
tobacco, but it has led him into regions of delightful 
holiday ? Has Europe ever wiped her feet of the blood 
of war before she stepped into it again ? Have masses 
of men their times of drunkenness as nature herself the 
crises of love ? To the private individual, the Mirabeau 
who vegetates in times of peace but dreams of whirl- 
winds, Excess means much ; it means a grasp on life, a 
duel with an unknown power, with a dragon. The mon- 
ster is at first abhorrent, terrif3nng ; 3’ou must seize him 
by the horns, and the fatigue is dreadful ; nature may 
have given ,you a slow and narrow stomach ; 3’ou con- 
quer it, 3^ou enlarge it ; j^ou learn how to take your wine, 
you grow friendly with intoxication, y'ou pass nights 
without sleep, and soon y^ou have the temperament of a 
colonel of cuirassiers ; you have created yourself anew. 

“ When a man has thus metamorphosed himself, when 
the neophyte, grown to be an old soldier, has trained 
his soul to the artillery and his legs to the march, with- 
out as y^et falling a victim to the dragon (though he 
knows not which of the two is master) , they^ struggle 
and roll together, alternately vanquished and vanquish- 
ing, in a sphere where all is my’stical, where the suf- 


193 


The Magic Skin. 

ferings of the soul are put to sleep, and nothing lives 
but the ghosts of ideas. The awful struggle has now 
become a necessit3\ Like the fabulous personages of 
many legends, who sell their soul to the Devil to ob- 
tain the power of doing evil, the dissipated man has 
played his death against the joys of life, — those fruit- 
ful and abounding joys ! Existence, instead of flowing 
onward between its peaceful and monotonous banks, 
behind a counter or in an oflice, boils and foams and 
rushes like a torrent. Excess is to the body what mys- 
tical pleasures are to the soul. Intoxication plunges 
the mind into dreams whose phantasmagoria are as 
curious as those of ecstasj^ ; it bestows hours of en- 
chantment equal to the fancies of a \'oung girl, delight- 
ful conversations with friends, words that reveal a 
lifetime, joj’s that are frank and without reserva- 
tion, journej^s without fatigue, poems evolving in a 
sentence. 

“ The brutal gratification of the beast, to the depths 
of which science descends to seek a soul, is succeeded 
b}- enchanting torpors for which men sigh when worn 
and wearied out by intellect. They feel the need of 
absolute repose. Excess to them is the tax which 
genius paj’S to evil. Observe the world’s great men ; 
if they pursue no pleasure to excess, nature has cre- 
ated them weaklings. Some power, be it a jeering or 
a jealous power, vitiates their soul or their body and 
neutralizes the efforts of their genius. During these 
bacchanal hours men and things appear before us 
clothed with the liverj^ of our own estate. Kings of 
creation, we transform created things at will. Athwart 
this perpetual delirium Play pours its molten lead into 


194 


The Magic Skin, 

our veins. The day comes when we belong to the 
monster ; we have then a desperate awaking ; impo- 
tence is seated at our bedside ; aged warriors, con- 
sumption is waiting to devour us ; statesmen, death 
hangs by the thread of an aneurism in our heart ; for 
myself, as I well know, my lungs will say to me, as 
once they said to Raphael Urbino, killed by excess of 
love, ‘ Thy time has come, depaH.’ 

“ That is my life. I came too earl}^ or too late into 
the world ; perhaps my powers might have been dan- 
gerous had I not thus enfeebled them. The universe 
was saved from Alexander by the cup of Hercules at 
the close of an org}". There are souls betra3"ed who 
must have heaven or hell — the feasts of Bacchus or the 
Hospice of Saint-Bernard. To-night I had no heart to 
rebuke these creatures,” he went on, pointing to 
Euphrasia and Aquilina. “ Are the}' not the embodi- 
ment of my own history, the image of m}^ life? Could 
I accuse them? no, for the}" seem to me m}^ judges. 

“In the course of this living^ poem, in the midst of 
this bewildering malad}^ I came to two crises that were 
fruitful of bitter pains. A few nights after I had flung 
myself like Sardanapalus on m3" pyre, I met Fedora in 
the portico of the opera-house. We were waiting for 
our carriages. ‘ Ah ! so I meet 3"Ou in the land of the 
living,’ was the meaning of her smile and the theme of 
the low words she doubtless said to her companion as 
she related my story and judged my love b}^ the com- 
monplace standards of her own mind, congratulating 
herself perhaps for her mistaken perceptions. Oh, to 
be dying for her, to adore her still, to see but her in the 
midst of m3" excesses, and know myself the object of 


The Magic Skin. 195 

her laughter ! Would that I could rend my breast, tear 
out that fatal love, and fling it at her feet ! 

“ Soon my money was exhausted ; but three years’ 
sobriety in a garret had brought me robust health, and 
when again I found myself without a penny it was still 
perfect. Continuing to pursue death, I signed bills of 
exchange for short dates, and the day of meeting them 
drew near. Dreadful emotions ! and 3’et how 3’oung 
hearts live on them. I was not meant to grow palsied 
as 3^et ; my soul was 3’oung and eager and fresh. My 
first debt called back m3" virtues, and they came with 
lagging feet as though disconsolate ; but soon I com- 
promised, as w-e do with some old aunt who begins 
by scolding us, and ends by giving money and tears. 
Imagination, sterner than virtue, showed me m3’ name 
upon those bills travelling from place to place through 
Europe. ‘ Our name is ourself,’ sa3’s Eusebe Salverte. 
Those banking agents, the embodiment of commercial 
vengeance, dressed in gra3% wearing the liver3’ of their 
master and a silver shield, whom I had formerly- looked 
at with indifference as they’ passed along the streets of 
Paris, I now hated by’ anticipation. Before long some 
one of them would surely come and ask me for pay- 
ment of the eleven bills of exchange that I had signed. 
Those bills amounted to three thousand francs, and I 
had not a penny. I saw in my mind’s ey’e the man, 
with a dull face indifferent to all despair, even that of 
death, standing before me like the executioner who 
say’s to the criminal, ‘ It is half-past three o’clock.’ 
That man would have the right to seize me, to post my^ 
name, to soil it, to make jests upon it. Debt! To 
owe money ! can a man belong to himself if he owes to 


196 


The Magic Skin, 


other men ? Might they not justly ask me to give ac- 
count of my life? Why had I eaten puddings a la 
Chipolata, why did I drink iced wines, wh3^ did I sleep, 
walk, think, amuse m^^self without pa^dng them? In 
the middle of a poem, in the grasp of an idea, sur- 
rounded b}" friends, b}’ delights, bj’ merriment, I might 
see a man in a brown coat, holding a shabby' hat in his 
hand, approach me. That man was m^^ Debt, my bill 
of exchange, a spectre^ that blighted m3" 303", forced me 
to leave the table to follow him, wrenched from me my 
ga3"ety, my mistress, m3" all, even my bed. 

“ Remorse is more tolerant, it drives us neither to 
the streets nor to Sainte-Pelagie, — it spares us at least 
that execrable sink of vice, — it sends us only to the 
scaffold which ennobles us ; for at the moment of our 
execution the whole communit3" believes us innocent. 
But short of that, societ3" allows no virtue to the spend- 
thrift who can spend no more. I dreamed of those 
debts on two legs, dressed in green cloth, wearing blue 
spectacles and carrying faded umbrellas ; those debts 
incarnate, which in some jo3’Ous moment we come face to 
face with at the corner of a street, — creatures who have 
the horrible right to say : ‘ That is Monsieur de Valentin ; 
he owes me money and does not pay it ; but I have a 
hold upon him.* We must bow to such creditors gra- 
ciousl3". ‘When will 3"OU pay me?’ they repl3". And 
then we lie or implore some other man for the money ; 
we cringe before a fool sitting at a desk, accept his cold 
glance, the glance of a leech, more odious than a blow, 
and put up perforce with his sharp reckoning and his 
crass ignorance. A debt is a work of imagination that 
such men can never comprehend. An impulse of the 


The Magic Skin» 


197 


soul often impels and subjugates a borrower, while no 
great-heartedness subjugates, no generosity guides those 
who live in money and know nought else. I felt a hatred 
of money. Or again, the bill of exchange might be meta- 
morphosed into an old man burdened with a family he 
was virtuously bringing up. Or perhaps I owed that 
money to some living Greuze, to a paralytic sur- 
rounded by children, to the widow of a soldier, all of 
whom held up to me their supplicating hands. Dread- 
ful creditors, with whom we must needs weep, and even 
if we pay the debt, we still are bound to succor them. 

“ The evening before the day on which my first bill 
of exchange was to fall due, I had gone to bed with 
the stolid calmness of a criminal before his execution, 
or a man on the eve of a duel ; such persons are still 
under the influence of deceitful hopes. But when I 
woke in the morning in cold blood, when I felt my 
soul in the grasp of a banker, classed on an inventory, 
written in red ink, then my debts sprang about me 
like grasshoppers ; they were there on my clock, in 
my chairs, hanging to every article that I liked best to 
use. All those dear material servants were to fall a 
prey to the minions of the Chatelet ; a bailiff would 
take them from me, and fling them brutally into the 
street. Ah ! my remains still lived ; I was not dead, 
I was still myself. The door-bell rang in my heart and 
echoed to my head. It was martyrdom without a 
heaven beyond it. Yes, to a generous man debt is 
hell, but hell amid brokers and bailiffs. An unpaid 
debt is a base thing ; it is the beginning of knavery. 
Worse than that, it is a lie; it foretells crime, the 
stocks, the scaffold. 


198 


The Magic Skin, 


‘‘ My bills of exchange were protested. Three days 
later I paid them ; and this was how I did it. A land 
speculator proposed that I should sell him the island I 
possessed in the Loire, which contained my mother’s 
grave. I agreed. When signing the deeds before the 
purchaser’s notar}’ I felt a cold air as from a vault 
pass over me. I shuddered, remembering that the same 
chill dampness had seized me as I stood by my father’s 
open grave. I accepted the incident as an evil omen. 
I fancied I heard my mother’s voice and saw her shade ; 
some power, I knew not what, sounded m}^ own name 
vaguely in my ears amid the ringing of bells. 

“ The price of my island left me, when all my debts 
were paid, about two thousand francs. I might now 
have resumed the peaceful life of a scholar and returned 
to my garret-chamber after experimenting with the life 
of the world. I could have carried back to it a mind 
filled with vast observation, and a name that was al- 
ready somewhat known. But Fedora, — I was still 
her prey ! We had often met. I made my name tingle 
in her ears by the praises her astonished lovers be- 
stowed on my wit, my horses, my equipages, my suc- 
cess. She continued cold and insensible to everything, 
even to the remark, ‘He is killing himself for 3’ou ! ’ 
made to her by Rastignac. I called the whole world to 
aid my vengeance ; but I was not happy. Deep as I 
had gone into the slime of the world, I had ever craved 
more deepl}’ still the delights of mutual love ; that phan- 
tom I still pursued through all the chances and changes 
and dissipations of my life, even to the depths of my 
excesses. Alas ! I was deceived in every belief, I was 
punished for my benefactions by ingratitude, rewarded 


The Magic Skin. 


199 


for my wrong-doings by delights, — a baleful philoso- 
phy, but true of the man given over to Excess. Fedora 
had inoculated me with the leprosy of her vanity I 
Probing my soul, I found it gangrened, rotten. The 
devil had stamped his hoof upon my brow. I could 
no longer do without the continual excitements of my 
perilous life, or the hateful refinements of extravagance. 
Had I been rich as Croesus, I should still have gambled 
and wasted my substance and rushed into vice. I dared 
not be alone with m^’self. I needed false friends, wine, 
courtesans, and good living to take my thoughts. The 
ties that bind a man to the sense of famil}* were broken 
in me forever. The galley-slave of pleasure, I must 
now accomplish my destiny of suicide. During the last 
days of my last money I rushed nightl3^ into incredible 
excesses, and each morning death fiung me back to life. 
Like an annuitant, I might have walked through fiames 
untouched. The day came when twenty francs were all 
that remained to me ; and then for the first time a 
thought of Rastignac’s great luck occurred to me, and 
I — Ha, ha ! ” — he suddenly bethought himself of the 
talisman, and pulled it from his pocket. 

Whether it were that he was worn out by the strug- 
gles of this long daj^, and no longer had the strength to 
control his mind amid the fumes of wine and punch, or 
that, exasperated by the phantom of his life which he 
had thus conjured up, he had insensibly intoxicated 
himself by the torrent of his words, Raphael now grew 
wild and excited, like a man completely deprived of 
reason. 

“ To the devil with death ! ” he cried, brandishing 
the Skin. “ I choose to live ! I am rich ! I have every 


The Magic Skin, 


virtue ! Nothing can thwart me ! Who would not be 
good when he can be all? Ha, ha! I have wished for 
two hundred thousand francs a 3’ear, and I shall have 
them ! Bow down before me, 3’e swine, who wallow on 
this carpet as if in a sty ! You belong to me, fine prop- 
erty that you are ! I can buy 3 011 all, — even that deputy 
that lies snoring over there ! Come, you refuse of high 
society, make obeisance to me ! I ’m 3’our Pope 1 ” 
These violent exclamations, covered at first by the 
snores of those about him, were suddenly heard. Most 
of the sleepers woke up shouting ; the3" saw the speaker 
standing unsteadily on his legs, and the3’ cursed his 
noisy drunkenness with a concert of oaths. 

“ Silence 1 ” cried Raphael. “ Hounds, to your ken- 
nels ! £ mile, I tell 3’ou I have treasures ; I ’ll give 3’ou 

Havana cigars — ” 

“ I hear you,” replied the poet. “ Fedora or death ! 
Keep it up ! That sugar-plum of a Fedora is onl3’ de- 
ceiving 3'ou. All women are daughters of Eve. Your 
tale is not a bit dramatic.” 

“ You are asleep, 3’ou cheat 1 ” 

“ No, no ; Fedora or death I I ’m listening.” 

“Wake up!” cried Raphael, striking Emile with 
the Magic Skin as if he meant to draw forth an electric 
fluid. 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Emile, rising and seizing 
Raphael in his arms. “ M3" friend, recollect where 3"OU 
are, — in the compan3" of bad women ! ” 

“ I ’m a millionnaire ! ” 

“ Millionnaire or not, 3’ou are drunk ! ” 

“Drunk with power, — lean kill you. Silence! I 
arn Nero ! I am Nebuchadnezzar ! ” 


The Magic Skin. 


201 


“ But, Raphael, hear me ; we are in bad company. 
You ought to be silent out of dignit3^” 

“My life has been silent too long. Now I will 
avenge myself on the universe ! I 'll not pla}- at spend- 
ing paltry mone^^ — I ’ll imitate the epoch. I ’ll concen- 
trate its teachings in myself by consuming human lives, 
and intellects, and souls. That ’s a luxury that is neither 
mean nor contemptible ; it is the wealth, the opulence 
of the Plague ! I will fight with fevers, — yellow, blue, 
and green, — with armies, with scaffolds. I can have 
Fedora — no, no, I do not want Fedora ; she is m3" dis- 
ease. I am dying of her. Let me forget Fedora — ” 
“If 3'ou continue to shout I’ll carry 3"Ou into the 
dining-room.” 

“Do 3^ou see that Skin? It is the last will and 
testament of Solomon. He ’s mine, that Solomon, — 
that little pedant of a king ! Arabia is in the hollow 
of m3" hand, — Petraea too. The universe is mine. You 
are mine if I want 3"Ou, — Ha ! take care, lest I do 
want 3’ou. I can bu3" up 3"Our trumpery journal ; I ’ll 
make 3"ou my valet. You can write verses and rule 
m3" paper for me. Valet ! valet ^ — that means : He has 
health, because he thinks of nothing.” 

Here Simile dragged Raphael into the dining-room. 
“Yes, 3'es, my dear friend,” he said, “I’m 3"our 
valet. But you are to be editor-in-chief of a newspaper, 
and 3’OU must hold your tongue. Be decent, if only out 
of regard for me. You do care for me, don’t you ? ” 
“Don’t I! You shall smoke Havana cigars out of 
the Skin. The Skin, the Skin, my friend, the Sover- 
eign Skin, — it’s a panacea, it will cure corns! Have 
you corns? I’ll extract them.” 


202 


The Magic Skin, 


“ Never did I see you so stupid.” 

“Stupid! No. That Skin is to shrink whenever 1 
form a wish — it ’s a living paradox. The brahman (for 
there’s a brahman behind it all) the brahman was a 
miserable joker because, don’t you «ee, desires must 
stretch — ” 

“Yes, I see — ” 

“I tell you — ” 

“Yes, yes, that’s very true, I think as you do, 
desires stretch — ” 

“ I told you the Skin must stretch.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You don’t believe me ; I see you don’t ; you ’re as 
deceitful as that new king of ours.” 

“ How am I to follow your drunken ramblings? ” 

“I bet I can prove it to you. Let’s take its 
measure.” 

“ Heavens ! will he never go to sleep ! ” cried 6mile, 
as Raphael began to hunt about the room for some- 
thing. 

Valentin, with the cleverness of a monkey, thanks 
to the curious lucidity of mind which occasionally 
contrasts in drunken men with their obtuseness of 
vision, soon found an inkstand and a napkin, repeating 
all the while, “Take the measure I Take the measure 1 
Take the measure I ” 

“ Yes,” said ilmile, “ let us take the measure.” 

The two friends spread out the napkin, and laid the 
ilagic Skin upon it. 6mile, whose hand was steadier 
than Raphael’s, took the pen and marked an ink line 
round the talisman, while his friend kept saying, “I 
wished for two hundred thousand francs a year, did n’t 


The Magic Skin, 203 

I? Well, when I get them, you will see that Skin 
shrink.” 

“Yes, but now go to sleep. Come and lie down on 
this sofa. There, are 3’ou comfortable?” 

“Yes, my suckling of the Press. You shall amuse 
me, and brush off the flies. The friend of evil daj’s 
has a right to be the friend of power, and I ’ll — give 
you — ci — gars — Hav — ” 

“Come, sleep off your gold, millionnaire.” 

“Sleep off* your articles, 3'ou — Good-night. Say 
good-night to Nebuchadnezzar. Love ! Your health ! 
France — glory and riches — rich — ” 

Soon the two friends added their snores to the mu- 
sic that echoed in the adjoining rooms. The candles 
burned down one b}^ one, shattered their glass cups and 
then went out. Night wrapped its black crape round 
the long org3% to which Raphael’s tale had been like an 
orgy of speech, of words without ideas, of ideas for 
which the right expression was often wanting. 

About twelve o’clock of the next day the beautiful 
Aquilina rose, 3'awning and languid, with her cheek 
marbled bj" the imprint of the stamped velvet footstool 
on which her head had been tying. Euphrasia, wakened 
bj" the movement of her companion, jumped up suddenly, 
uttering a hoarse cry. Her pretty face, so fair, so fresh 
the night before, was yellow and pale, like that of a girl 
on her way to the hospital. One by one the guests began 
to stir and to groan as they felt the stiffness of their arms 
and legs, and the divers fatigues which overcame them 
on waking. A footman opened the blinds and windows 
of the salon. The company were presently upon theii 
feet, called to life by the warm sunbeams which sparkled 


204 


The Magic Skin. 


upon their slumbering heads. The women, whose ele- 
gantly arranged hair was now dishevelled and whose 
dresses were disordered by the tossings of sleep, pre- 
sented a hideous spectacle in the light of day. Their 
hair hung down, the expression of their faces had 
changed, their eyes so brilliant the night before were 
dulled by lassitude. The sallow complexions, often so 
dazzling by candlelight, were shocking to behold ; the 
lymphatic faces, so fair and soft when at their best, had 
turned green ; the lips, so deliciously rosy a few hours 
earlier, were now dry and pallid, and bore the shameful 
stigmata of drunkenness. The men recoiled from their 
mistresses of the night before when they saw them thus 
discolored and cadaverous, like flowers crushed in the 
street after the passage of a procession. 

But the men who scorned the women were still 
more horrible to behold. You would have shuddered 
to see those human faces, those cavernous e^xs which 
seemed unable to see, torpid with wine, stupid with 
the weariness of a cramped sleep more fatiguing than 
restorative. Each haggard face on which the physical 
appetites now lay bare to the eye, without the imaginary 
charm with which our souls endeavor to invest them, 
was unspeakably ferocious and coldly bestial. This 
awaking of Vice, naked and without disguises, this skele- 
ton of Evil, in tatters, cold, empty, stripped of the sophis- 
tries of the mind or the fascinations of luxury, horrified 
the boldest of these athletes, habituated as they were to 
battle with Excess. Artists and courtesans kept silence 
as they gazed with haggard eyes at the disorder of the 
room where devastation reigned. A satanic laugh sud- 
denly arose as Taillefer, hearing the smothered groaning 


The Magic Skin, 


205 


of his guests, endeavored to salute them with a grin ; 
his bloated perspiring face seemed to hover over the 
scene like an infernal image of remorseless crime. The 
picture was complete, — the life of beasts in the midst 
of luxury, a horrible mixture of human pomps and 
wretchedness, the awakening from debauch when Ex- 
cess with its strong hands has pressed the juice from 
the fruits of life and left nothing behind but the worth- 
less refuse. You might have thought that Death was 
there smiling down upon a plague-smitten family ; no 
more perfumes and dazzling lights, no gayet}", no de- 
sires ; only Disgust with its nauseous odors, its pungent 
philosoph}", and with it all, the sun flaming out truth, an 
air pure as virtue, contrasting with the heated, fetid 
atmosphere, the miasmas of an orgy. 

Several of these j’oung girls, notwithstanding their 
depravity, were constrained to think on their waking of 
other da3’s, when, pure and innocent, they looked from 
their windows embowered in honeysuckle, across the 
meadows where the lark was rising, and the rosy dawn 
illumined vaporously the fauy network of the dew. 
Others thought of the family breakfast, — the table around 
which parents and children laughed together, and the 
food was simple as their hearts. An artist thought of 
his studio, its peace, his chaste statue and the graceful 
model who was there awaiting him. A young man, 
remembering a lawsuit on which the fate of a family de- 
pended, thought of the duty that demanded his presence. 
The man of science regretted his study and the noble 
work he was neglecting. All were bitter against them- 
selves. At this moment 6mile, fresh and rosy as a fash- 
ionable young shop-man, came into the room, laughing. 


206 


The Magic Skin. 

“ You are all uglier than a sheriffs officer,” he 
cried. “You can’t do an^^thing to-day ; the morning is 
half over : I propose that we breakfast.” 

At these words, Taillefer left the room to give 
orders. The women languidly set about smoothing 
their hair and repairing the disorder of their dresses 
before the mirrors. They shook themselves together. 
The most vicious lectured the more innocent, ridiculing 
those who seemed hardl}" able to go on with the coarse 
revelry. In a few moments, however, the spectres were 
alive again ; they fell into groups, questioned each other, 
and smiled. A few nimble servants restored order to 
the furniture and put things in their places ; an elegant 
breakfast was served ; and the guests crowded into the 
dining-room. There, although they all bore the in- 
effaceable signs of the excesses of the night before, still 
some traces of life and thought, such as we sometimes 
see in the last convulsions of the dying, were visible. 
Like the procession of the Mardi Gras, the saturnalia 
was buried by the mummers weary of their dances, sick 
of their drunkenness, and anxious to convict pleasure of 
stupidity rather than confess its ugliness. 

Just as this daring company were taking their seats 
at the breakfast- table, Cardot, the notary, who had 
prudently disappeared after dinner, re-appeared at the 
door with a gentle smile on his official face. He seemed 
to have discovered some inheritance to divide, or to 
inventory, an inheritance full of deeds to be drawn, big 
with fees, as juicy as the fillet into which the amphitryon 
was then plunging his knife. 

“Ho, ho! so we are to breakfast before a notary,” 
cried De Cursy. 


The Magic Skin, 


207 


“YouVe come in time to appraise all these fine 
things,” said the banker, pointing to the new banquet. 

“We have no wills to make, and as for marriage 
contracts, I don’t know about them,” said the man of 
science, who had made a successful first marriage within 
a year. 

“Oh! Oh!” 

“Ah! Ah!” 

“ One moment,” said Cardot, deafened bj" a chorus of 
trumpery jokes, “ I have come on serious business. I 
bring six millions for one of you. [Deep silence.] Mon- 
sieur,” he continued, addressing Raphael, who w’as at 
that moment unceremoniously employed in wiping his 
eyes with the corner of his napkin, “ was your mother 
a demoiselle O’Hara?” 

“Yes,” answered Raphael, almost mechanically, 
“ Barbara-Maria.” 

“ Have you a certificate of your birth and that of 
Madame de Valentin? ” 

“ I think so.” 

“Well, monsieur; j^ou are the sole heir of Major 
O’Hara, deceased in August, 1828, at Calcutta.” 

“ What a piece of luck ! ” came from many voices. 

“The major having bequeathed several large sums 
to certain public institutions, his property has been 
demanded and obtained from the India Company by the 
French government,” resumed the notary; “it is now 
liquidated and payable to the rightful owners. For the 
last two weeks I have been vainly searching for the heirs 
and assigns of Mademoiselle Barbara-Maria O’Hara, 
and last night, at table — ” 

Raphael suddenly rose, with the startled movement 


208 


The Magic Skin, 


of a man who receives a wound. Silent acclamations, 
as it were, greeted him ; the first feeling of the guests 
was that of sulk}" envy, and all eyes fiamed as they 
turned upon him. Then a murmur, like that of the pit 
of a theatre when displeased, a clamor of voices rose 
and swelled as each guest said his say about the vast 
fortune thus delivered by the notary. Restored to his 
full senses by this sudden obedience of destiny to his 
will, Raphael laid the napkin with which he had lately 
measured the Magic Skin before him on the table. 
Without listening to a word that was spoken, he 
stretched the Skin upon the cloth, and shuddered vio- 
lently when he saw a slight space between the line 
marked on the linen and the edges of the Skin itself. 

“ Well, what’s the matter? ” cried Taillefer ; “ he gets 
his fortune easily — ” 

“ ‘ Support him, Chatillon,’ ” said Bixiou to Emile, 
“joy is killing him.” 

A dreadful pallor defined every muscle in the hag- 
gard face of the new heir ; his features contracted, the 
projections of his face whitened, the hollow parts grew 
dusk}", the whole surface w'as livid and the eyes were 
fixed. He saw Death. This splendid banquet sur- 
rounded by faded prostitutes, by surfeited faces, this 
death-bed of joy, — was it not the image of his life ? He 
looked three times at the talisman which lay within the 
pitiless lines traced on the napkin ; he tried to doubt ; 
but a clear and strong presentiment annihilated his un- 
belief. The world was his, — he could do all things ; 
but he could wish for nothing. Like the traveller in the 
desert, he carried a little water to slake his thirst, and 
he must measure his life by its mouthfuls. He saw that 


The Magic Shin. 


209 


every desire would cost him days of existence. He 
believed in that Magic Skin. He listened to his own 
breathing ; he felt he was ill ; he asked himself, “ Am I 
consumptive ? Did my mother die of a lung disease ? ” 

“ Ha, ha, Kaphael, what fine amusements j’ou can 
have ! What are you going to give me ? ” said Aquilina. 

“Let us drink to the honor of the deceased uncle, 
Major Martin O’Hara. What a man ! ” 

“ He ’ll be peer of France.” 

“Bah! what’s a peer of France since July ? ” said 
the critic. 

“ Shall you have a box at the Bouffbns? ” 

“ I hope you’ll make us a feast and give us all our 
deserts,” said Bixiou. 

“ A man like Raphael knows how to do things hand- 
somely,” said ^mile. 

The cheers of the laughing company echoed in Val- 
entin’s ears ; but the meaning of their words never 
reached him ; he was thinking vaguely of the mechan- 
ical, uneventful life of a Breton peasant, — a life with- 
out wishes, burdened by a family, ploughing the fields, 
eating buckwheat, drinking cider or home-made wine, 
believing in the Virgin and the King, taking the sacra- 
ment at Easter, dancing on the green on Sunday's, and 
understanding not a word of the rector’s sermon. The 
sights that were now spread before the dreamer’s eyes, 
the gilded ceilings, the painted panellings, the women, 
the feast, the luxury, clutched him as it were by the 
throat and made him choke. 

“ Do you wish for some asparagus,” asked Taillefer. 

“ I wish for nothing,” cried Raphael, in a voice of 
thunder. 


14 


210 


The Magic Skin. 

“Bravo!” returned the banker. “You are begin- 
ning to understand wealth ; it is a patent of imperti- 
nence. You are one of us. Gentlemen, let us drink 
to the power of gold. Monsieur de Valentin, now six 
times a millionnaire, assumes power. He is king ; he 
can do all things ; he is above all things, like every 
other rich man. To him in future the first principle 
of the Charter, ‘ All Frenchmen are equal before the 
law^ is a lie. He does not obey law, law obej's him. 
There are no scaffolds, no executioners for rich men.” 

“You mistake,” said Raphael ; “ they are their own 
executioners.” 

“ That ’s another prejudice I ” cried the banker. 

“ Let us drink,” said Raphael, putting the talisman 
into his pocket. 

“Don’t do that!” said Emile, catching his hand, 
“ Gentlemen,” he added, addressing the companj^, who 
by this time were a good deal surprised at Raphael’s 
behavior, “ you must know that our friend de Valentin 
— what am I saying? — Monsieur le Marquis de Valen- 
tin possesses a secret means of making wealth. His 
wishes are accomplished the moment that he forms 
them. Unless he means to behave like a lackey, or a 
man of no principle, he will now proceed to make us 
all rich.” 

“Ah, my little Raphael, give me a set of pearls,” 
cried Euphrasia. 

“If he has any gratitude at all he will give me two 
carriages, each with a pair of beautiful fast horses,” 
said Aquilina. 

“ Wish me a hundred thousand francs a year.” 

“ To me some cashmeres.” 


211 


The Magic Skin. 

“ Pay my debts.” 

“ Send an apoplexy to that old uncle of mine.” 

“ Raphael, I ’ll let you off for ten thousand francs a 
year.” 

“ Fine deeds of gift ! ” cried the notary. 

“ You might cure my gout.” 

“ Bring down the price of stocks,” said the banker. 

All these speeches went off like the rockets of the 
bouquet which ends a display of fireworks. These 
eager desires were made, perhaps, more in earnest than 
in jest. 

“ dear friend,” said ^mile, gravely, “I’ll be 
quite satisfied with two hundred thousand francs a 
year. So now begin to kill 3’ourself with a good grace, 
come.” 

“ ^ 3 mile,” said Raphael, “you don’t know what it 
would cost me.” 

“ A fine excuse! ” cried the poet. “We ought all 
to sacrifice ourselves to our friends.” 

“ I have a mind to wish for the death of every one of 
you,” answered Valentin, casting a deep and darkling 
look at the guests. 

“ Dying men are frightfullj" cruel,” said 6mile, 
laughing. “ Here you are, rich,” he added, seriously. 
“ Well, I give you two months to become disgustingly 
selfish. You are already stupid, for 5^ou can’t under- 
stand a joke. The next thing will be that 3"ou will 
actually believe in that Magic Skin of yours.” 

Raphael, who dreaded the satire of the assembled 
company kept silence, and drank inordinately, to for- 
get for the time being his fatal power. 


PART III. 


THE DEATH AGONY. 

Early in the month of December an old man, over 
seventy years of age, was going along the rue de 
Varennes, unmindful of the rain, and gazing up at the 
doors of all the houses, looking, with the eagerness of a 
lover and the absorbed air of a philosopher, for the one 
belonging to Monsieur le Marquis Raphael de Valentin. 
An expression of anxious grief, struggling against the 
will of a despotic nature, was on his face, which was 
dried like an old parchment shrivelling in the fire, and 
framed by long gray locks, now hanging in disorder. If 
a painter had met this singular personage, who was lean 
and bony, and dressed in black, he would certainly", on 
returning to his studio, have put a sketch of him into 
his note-book with the inscription, “ Classic poet in 
search of a rhyme.’’ After making sure of the number 
of the house, this living palingenesia of RoUin knocked 
gently at the door of a magnificent hotel. 

“Is Monsieur Raphael at home?” he asked of the 
porter in livery. 

“ Monsieur le marquis does not receive visitors,” 
answered the man, swallowing a huge bit of bread 
which he was dipping in a bowl of coflee. 

“ I see his carriage,” persisted the old man, pointing 
to a brilliant equipage standing under a wooden roof 


The Magic Skin, 


213 


painted in stripes like an awning, which projected from 
the portico and overshadowed the steps. “ He must be 
going out ; and I will wait here to speak with him.” 

“ Ah ! my old friend, then you may have to wait here 
till to-morrow morning ! ” answered the porter. “ There 
is always a carriage standing ready for monsieur. But 
please go awa}^ ; I should lose an annuity of six hun- 
dred francs if I were to let a stranger into the house 
without orders.” 

Just then a tall old man, whose apparel was a good 
deal like that of an usher in a ministerial office, came 
out of the vestibule, and down a few steps hastily, to 
examine the astonished petitioner. 

“Well, here ’s Monsieur Jonathas,” said the porter. 
“You can ask him.” 

The two old men, attracted to each other by the 
sympathy of age, or by mutual curiosity, met in the 
middle of the large court-yard, where tufts of grass 
were growing between the paving-stones. A dreadful 
silence reigned about the house. An observer, looking 
at Jonathas, would have longed to fathom the mystery 
that loomed on his face, and appeared in all the details 
of the gloomy premises. Raphael’s first care, after 
succeeding to the wealth of his uncle, had been to find 
out what had become of the old and devoted servant, 
whose affection he could rely. Jonathas wept with joy 
when he saw his young master, — from whom he had 
thought himself forever parted, — and his happiness, 
when the marquis promoted him to the important func- 
tions of steward, knew no bounds. The old man be- 
came an intermediary power stationed between Valentin 
and the outer world. Sole manager of his master’s 


214 


The Magic Skin. 


wealth, blind agent of a mysterious thought, he was 
like a sixth sense through which the emotions of life 
were brought to Raphael. 

“ Monsieur, I wish to speak to Monsieur Raphael,” 
said the other old man, pointing to the steps of the 
portico, as if to ask for shelter from the rain. 

“ Speak to Monsieur le marquis ! ” exclaimed the 
steward. “He scarcely ever speaks to me, his foster- 
father.” 

“I am also his foster-father!” said the old man. 
“ If your wife fed him with her milk, I taught him to 
suck the breast of the Muses. He is my nursling, 
m}’^ child, — earns alumnus. I fashioned his brain, 
cultivated his understanding, developed his genius ; and 
I say it to my own honor and glory. Is he not one 
of the most remarkable men of our epoch? He was 
under me in the sixth and third classes, and in rhetoric. 
I am his professor I ” 

“ Ah ! monsieur is Monsieur Porriquet? ” 

‘ ‘ Precisely. But monsieur — ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said Jonathas to two scullions 
whose voices broke the dead silence which pervaded 
the premises. 

“ Is Monsieur le marquis ill? ” asked the professor, 
anxiously. 

“ Ah, monsieur, God alone knows what is the matter 
with him 1 There ’s not another house in Paris like 
this, — do 3 ^ou hear me ? — not another. Good God ! 
no. Monsieur le marquis bought it from the former 
proprietor, — a duke and peer. He has spent three 
hundred thousand francs in furnishing it ; that ’s not a 
trifling sum! Every room in the house is a miracle. 


The Magic Skin, 


215 


Good ! when I saw all this magnificence, I said to 
myself : ‘ It is his grandfather’s time over again ; the 
young master will invite all the world, and the court, 
too.’ Not at all ! Monsieur never sees any one. He 
leads a strange life. Monsieur Porriquet, — do you hear 
me ? — an inconceivable life. He gets up every day at 
the same hour. None but I — I alone, believe me — 
am allowed to enter his room. I open his door at 
seven o’clock, summer and winter. There’s a queer 
compact between us. After I enter I say, ‘ Monsieur 
le marquis, 3*ou must wake up ; 3"0U must dress.’ And 
then he wakes up and dresses. I give him his dressing- 
gown, alwa3’s made in the same st3de and of the same 
sort of stuff. I am obliged to replace everything when 
it gets worn, so that he need never ask for new things. 
Was there ever such a fanc3"? Well, poor dear, he 
has a thousand francs a day to spend, and so he can 
do as he likes ! I love him so that if he boxed m3 
right ear I ’d turn him the left. He might tell me to 
do the most difficult things, and I should do them, — 
do them,, do you hear me? As for other matters, he 
makes me attend to such a lot of trifles that I ’m kept 
busy all the time. Say he reads the papers, — well, I 
have to put them ever3’ morning in the same place on 
the same table. I am to come at precisely the same 
hour to shave him, — and don’t I tremble? The cook 
will lose an annuit3* of a thousand francs, which he is 
to have at his master’s death, if breakfast is not served 
precisel3’ at ten in the morning and dinner at five. The 
bill of fare is made out for the whole year, day after 
day, and no changes allowed. Monsieur le marquis 
has nothing to wish for. He has strawberries when 


216 


The Magic Skin, 


there are strawberries, and the first mackerel which 
comes to Paris. The dinner-list is printed, and he 
knows it by heart. For the rest, he dresses at the 
same hour, in the same linen, the same clothes, laid 
out by me — by me, do you hear me ? — on the same 
chair. I have to see that the cloth of his clothes is al- 
ways the same ; if his overcoat were to get worn out 
(but that’s only a supposition), I should replace it 
without saying a word to him. If the weather is fine I 
go in and say, ‘ You ought to go out, monsieur.’ To 
that he replies yes, or no. If yes, he is not obliged 
to wait a moment, — the horses are kept harnessed, the 
coachman sits on his box, whip in hand, just as 3’ou 
see him over there. In the evening, after dinner, 
monsieur goes one day to the Fran^ais, and another 
day to the Op — stay, no, he has n’t yet been to the 
Opera, for I could not get a box till ^-esterda^". Then 
he comes home precisely at eleven o’clock and goes to 
bed. During the day he does nothing, absolutel}’ noth- 
ing, but reads, reads, reads forever ; it is a notion he 
has. I am ordered to study the ‘ Bookseller’s Journal,’ 
and buy all the new books, so that he may find them 
on his table on the day of publication. It is my busi- 
ness to go into his room every hour and look after the 
fire and other things, so that he can never want any- 
thing. Why, monsieur, he gave me a little book of my 
duties, — a sort of catechism, which I had to learn by 
heart ! In summer I arrange piles of ice to keep the 
temperature of his room cool, and put fresh flowers 
everywhere. Rich! I should think he was rich, — he 
has a thousand francs a day to get rid of I he can do 
what he hkes now. He was long enough, poor boj’, with- 


The Magic Skin, 


217 


out, as 3’ou may say, the necessaries of life ! Well, 
he troubles no one ; he is as good as gold. He never 
speaks ; dead silence in the house and garden. But, 
dull as the life is, m3’ master has n’t a wish to gratify ; 
ever3’thing goes by clock-work et recta. And he is 
quite right, too ; if 3’ou don’t keep servants up to the 
mark things are soon at sixes and sevens. I tell him 
all he ought to do, and he does it. You would n’t 
believe how far he carries that sort of thing ! His 
rooms are in a — a, what do you call it? — suite. Well, 
suppose he opens his chamber-door, or his stud3’-door, 

— bang! all the other doors open of themselves b3’ 
mechanism ; and then he goes from end to end of his 
rooms without finding a single door closed, — ver3’ 
convenient and agreeable for us servants ! In short. 
Monsieur Porriquet, he told me in the beginning, — 
^ Jonaihas, 3’ou are to take care of me like a babe in 
swaddling-clothes,’ — swaddling-clothes, 3’es, monsieur, 
that ’s just what he did sa3’, swaddling-clothes ! ‘You 
are to think of all m3^ wants for me.’ I ’m the master, 

— do you hear me? — the master, and he is, after a 
fashion, the servant. And why? Ah, that’s some- 
thing nobody in the world knows but himself and the 
good God I It ’s incomprehensible ! ” 

“ He must be writing a poem,” said the professor. 

“ Do you think so ? Is that so very absorbing? But 
I don’t believe you are right. He often tells me he wants 
to live like a vegetable, to vegetate. No later than yes- 
terda3% Monsieur Porriquet, he looked at a tulip while he 
was dressing, and he said to me, ‘ There ’s my life. I 
vegetate, my poor Jonathas.’ People are beginning to 
call it monomania. Well, it ’s inconceivable 1 ” 


218 


The Magic Skin, 


“ It all goes to prove, Jonathas,” said the protessor, 
in a grave, dictatorial tone which greatly* impressed the 
old valet, “ that 3"our master is engaged on some great 
work. He is plunged in deep and boundless meditation, 
and he does not choose to be disturbed b}^ the affairs of 
daily life. A man of genius forgets everj’thing when 
absorbed in intellectual toil. One day the celebrated 
Newton — ” 

“ Newton?” said Jonathas, “ I don’t know him.” 

“ Newton, agreatmathematican,” resumed Porriquet, 
“once spent twentj’-four hours with his elbows on a 
table ; when he came out of his reverie he thought it was 
still the day before, just as if he had been to bed and to 
sleep. I must see Monsieur Raphael, — dear bo}^, per- 
haps I can help him,” added the professor, making a few 
steps toward the house. 

“Stop!” cried Jonathas. “Were you the king 
of France, old man, 3^011 can’t go in there unless 3^011 
force the doors and walk over m3- dead bod3\ But, 
Monsieur Porriquet, I’ll go and tell him you are here. 
I shall sa3', ‘ Is he to come up? ’ and he ’ll answer, ‘ Yes,’ 
or ^ No.’ I am never allowed to ask him, ‘ Do 3"ou wish ? 
Is it 3wr desire ? Will you do so and so ? ’ Those words 
are blotted out of the conversation. Once I forgot m3’- 
self and blurted out one of them. ‘ Do 3’ou wish to 
kill me ? ’ he cried in a rage.” 

Jonathas left the old professor in the vestibule, 
making him a sign that he was to come no farther ; he 
soon returned however with a favorable answer and con- 
ducted the old emeritus through a suite of sumptuous 
apartments the doors of which were all open. Porriquet 
saw his old pupil in the distance sitting beside the fire- 


The Magic Skin, 


219 


place. Wrapped in a dressing-gown made of some 
stuff with a large pattern, and sunken in a padded arm- 
chair, Eaphael was reading a newspaper. The deep 
melancholy to which he seemed a victim was expressed 
in the helpless attitude of his weakened body ; it was 
stamped on his brow, on his face, pale as an etiolated 
plant. A certain effeminate grace and the fanciful air 
peculiar to rich invalids clung about him. His hands, 
like those of a pretty woman, were softl}’ and delicately 
white. His fair hair, now very thin, curled about the 
temples with dainty coquetr}’. A Greek cap, dragged 
down by a tassel too heavy for the slight cashmere of 
which it was made, hung on one side of his head. He 
had let a malachite paper-knife with a gold handle which 
he had been using to cut the leaves of a book, drop at 
his feet. On his knees was the amber mouth-piece of 
an Indian hookah whose enamelled spirals lay like a 
serpent on the floor ; but he had forgotted to inhale its 
fragrant odors. And yet, the pervading feebleness of 
this 3'oung body was belied b}" the blue eyes ; life seemed 
to concentrate within them and to shine with an ex- 
traordinary perception which took in at a glance every- 
thing about him. That look was painful to behold. 
Some would have called it despairing ; others might have 
read it to mean an inward struggle more terrible even 
than remorse. It was, in truth, the deep and all-em- 
bracing glance of a powerless man driving his desires 
back into the depths of his soul ; the glance of the miser 
gloating in thought over pleasures his mone}’ might 
bring him, but which he denies himself rather than spend 
it ; the glance of a chained Prometheus, of the fallen 
Emperor when he discovered at the Elysee, in 1815, the 


220 


The Magic Skin, 


strategic blunder of his enemies, and asked for twenty- 
four hours of command, which were denied him. It 
was the look of a conqueror, and 3’et the look of a lost 
soul, — the same look that some months earlier Raphael 
had cast at his last bit of gold as he threw it on the 
gambling- table, the same that a few minutes later he 
had cast at the Seine. 

He now submitted his will, his intellect, to the coarse 
common-sense of the old peasant who was only half- 
civilized after fifty years of servitude. Almost happy in 
thus becoming a species of automaton, he abdicated life 
that he might live, and stripped his soul of every wish 
and of all the glories of desire. He made himself chaste 
after the manner of Origen, emasculating his imagination 
that he might the better struggle with that cruel Power 
whose challenge he had rashly accepted. The morrow 
of the day on which, suddenly enriched by his uncle’s 
will, he had seen the Magic Skin perceptibly diminish, 
he was at the house of his notary. There he chanced 
to meet a physician who related how a native of Switzer- 
land had cured himself of consumption. The man never 
spoke for ten years, compelled himself to breathe only 
six times a minute, in the close air of a cow-house, 
following a rigid diet. “ I will live like that man,” thought 
Raphael, resolved to live at any price. In the midst of 
luxury he led the life of a steam-engine. 

The old professor shuddered as he looked at him; 
everything about that frail and debilitated body seemed 
to him artificial. The recollection of his fresh and rosy 
pupil with alert 3^oung limbs came to his mind as he met 
the burning eye of the marquis and saw the weight of 
thought upon his brow. If the old classic scholar, a 


The Magic Skin. 


221 


sagacious critic and preserver of the style of a past 
da}", had ever read Lord B^Ton he would have fancied 
that he saw Manfred where he expected to have seen 
Childe Harold. 

“ Good morning, Pere Porriquet,” said Raphael to 
his old teacher, taking the cold fingers of the old man 
into his own burning hand. “ How are 3 0U ? ” 

“I am very well,*’ answered the old man, frightened 
by the touch of that feverish hand ; “ and you?” 

“ Oh ! I hope to keep myself in good health.” 

“ You are engaged, I suppose, on some great work?” 

“ No,” answered Raphael. “ Exegi monumentum ; I 
have closed the books and bid adieu to Science. I 
really don’t know where my manuscripts are.” 

“ Your style was pure,” said the professor, “ I hope 
3"Ou have not adopted the barbaric language of the new 
school, who thought they did a marvellous deed in 
producing Ronsard ? ” 

“ My work is purely phj’siological.” 

“Oh, I am sorry,” replied the professor. “When 
it comes to science, grammar must lend itself to the 
necessities of discover}". Nevertheless, my dear boy, 
a clear style which is also harmonious, like that of 
Massillon, Monsieur de Buffon, and the great Racine, a 
classical style, can never injure anything. But, my 
friend,” said the old man, interrupting himself, “I am 
forgetting the object of my visit. It is one of self- 
interest.” 

Remembering too late the rhetorical eloquence to 
which a long professorship had trained his old master, 
Raphael regretted having admitted him, and was about 
to wish that he would go, when he suddenly strangled 


222 


The Magic Skin. 

the secret desire as his eyes fell on the Magic Skin 
hanging before him. It was fastened to a white cloth, 
on which its fateful outlines were carefully drawn by a 
strong red line which accurately marked them. Since 
the fatal banquet, Raphael had subdued the very least 
of his desires, endeavoring to live in a wa}^ to give no 
cause of shrinking to the terrible talisman. That piece 
of magic leather was like a tiger with whom he was 
compelled to live without exciting its ferocity. He 
therefore listened patiently to the prolixities of the 
old professor. It took P^re Porriquet nearly an hour 
to relate certain persecutions to which he had been 
subjected since the Revolution of Jul3^ The worthy 
soul, wishing for a strong government, had imprudently 
uttered a patriotic desire that grocers would attend to 
their own business, statesmen to the conduct of public 
affairs, lawyers to their cases, and peers of France to 
their duties at the Luxembourg. But one of the popu- 
lar ministers of the citizen-king had resented his opin- 
ions, turned him out of his professorship, and called him 
a Carlist. He now came, less for himself than for those 
dependent on him, to entreat his former pupil to obtain 
for him the position of principal in one of the Govern- 
ment provincial colleges. Raphael was falling a victim 
to irrepressible sleepiness, when the monotonous voice 
of the professor suddenly ceased to murmur in his 
ears. Forced, out of politeness, to look into the faded 
and almost lifeless eyes of the old man as he uttered 
his slow and wearisome sentences, Raphael had been 
first stupefied, then magnetized by some inexplicable 
inert force. 

“ Well, my good Pere Porriquet,’* he answered, 


223 


The Magic Skin, 

without really knowing to what request he was reply- 
ing, “1 can do nothing, — reallj" nothing at all. I 
sincerelj" wish you ma}^ succeed — ” 

As he spoke, and without at all perceiving the effect 
his selfish and indifierent words produced upon the 
sallow, wrinkled face of the old man, Raphael suddenly 
sprang up like a frightened deer. He saw a slight 
white line between the edge of the black Skin and the 
broad red mark, and he uttered so dreadful a cry that 
the poor professor was terrified. 

“ Go, go, old fool ! ” he cried ; “ you will get that 
place you want, whatever it is. Why could you not 
have asked me for an annuity rather than a homicidal 
wish? Your visit would then have cost me nothing. 
There are a hundred thousand employments in France, 
and I have but one life. The life of a man is worth 
more than all the appointments in the universe — 
Jonathas !” 

Jonathas appeared. 

“ This is your doing, you triple fool ! Why did you 
tell me to receive him ? ” he cried, pointing to the petri- 
fied old man. “ Did I put my soul in 3^our keeping to 
let you rend it in pieces? You have torn ten years of 
life away from me. One more such act, and you will 
follow me where I followed my father. Would I not 
rather have wished and obtained my beautiful Fedora 
than have done a service to that old carcass, that rag 
of humanity ? I might have given him gold — Besides, 
if all the Porriquets in the world died of hunger, what 
is that to me ? ” 

Anger blanched his face ; a slight foam came upon 
his trembling lips ; the expression of his eye was blood- 


224 


The Magic Skin. 


thirsty. At sight of him the two old men shuddered 
convulsively, like children beholding a snake. The 
young man fell back into his chair; a species of re- 
action took place within him, and the tears flowed 
profusely from his flaming eyes. 

“Oh, my life! my beautiful life!” he said. “No 
more beneficent thoughts ! no more love ! Nothing, — 
nothing!” He turned to the professor. “The harm 
is done, old friend,” he continued, in a gentle voice. 
“ I have largely rewarded you for all your care of me. 
My misfortune has at least benefited a worthy man.” 

There was so much feeling in the tone with which he 
uttered these almost unintelligible words that the two 
old men wept as one weeps on hearing some tender air 
sung in a foreign language. 

“ He must be epileptic,” said Porriquet, in a low 
voice. 

“I thank you for that thought, my friend,” said 
Kaphael, gently. “ You wish to excuse me. Disease 
is an accident; inhumanity is vice. Leave me now,” 
he added. “ You will receive to-morrow, or the day 
after, or perhaps to-night, the appointment you are 
seeking, for resistance has triumphed over action. 
Adieu!” 

The old man went away horror-stricken, and full of 
anxiet}^ as to Raphael’s mental state. The scene struck 
him as bordering»on the supernatural. He doubted his 
own perceptions, and asked himself if he were not 
waking from a painful dream. 

“ Listen to me, Jonathas ! ” said the young man to 
his old valet. “ Try to understand the mission I have 
confided to you.” 


Tlie Magic Skin, 


225 


Yes, Monsieur le marquis.” 

“I am a man outside of all ordinary laws.” 

“ Yes, Monsieur le marquis.” 

“ All the delights of life are dancing like beautiful 
women around my dying bed. If I call to them, I die. 
Death ! always death ! You must be the barrier be- 
tween the world and me.” 

“Yes, Monsieur le marquis,” repeated the old man, 
wiping great drops of sweat from his wrinkled brow. 
“ But if you do not wish to see beautiful women, how 
can you go to the opera to-night? An English family 
who are returning to London have let me hire their box 
for the rest of the season ; and it is one of the best — 
a capital box, on the first tier ! ” 

Raphael had sunk into a reverie, and no longer 
listened. 

Do you see that luxurious carriage, — a simple coupe 
externally, painted brown, and on its panels the arms 
of an ancient and noble family? As it passes rapidly, 
the grisettes admire it, and covet the satin lining, the 
carpet from the Savonnerie, the gimps, the soft cush- 
ions, and the plate-glass windows. Two lackeys in 
livery stand behind that aristocratic equipage ; but 
within it, against the satin lining, lies a fevered head, 
with livid circles round the sunken eyes, — Raphael’s 
head, sad and thoughtful. Awful image of wealth ! 
He crosses Paris like a meteor ; arrives at the portico 
of the Theatre Favart ; the steps of the carriage are let 
down ; the two footmen support him ; an envious crowd 
watch him. 

Raphael walked slowly through the corridor; he 
15 


226 


The Magic Skin. 


allowed himself none of the pleasures he had formerly 
coveted. While waiting for the second act of the 
Semiramide, he went along the passages and up and 
down the foyer, forgetting his new box, which he had 
not yet entered. The sense of possession no longer 
existed in his breast. Like all sick folk, he thought 
only of his malady. Leaning against the mantle-shelf 
of the foyer, around which were circulating the old and 
the young men of fashion, past and present ministers 
of state, and a whole society of speculators and journal- 
ists, Raphael noticed near by him a strange and even 
supernatural figure. He advanced, staring somewhat 
insolently at the fantastic being, that he might get a 
nearer view of him. “ What a wonderful bit of paint- 
ing ! ’’ was his first thought. The hair, eye-brows, and 
pointed tuft on the chin, k la Mazarin, were dyed black ; 
but the coloring matter, being applied to hair that was 
too white to take it well, had given the whole an unnat- 
ural purplish tinge, the tints of which changed under 
the more or less vivid reflection of the lights. His face 
was flat and narrow, the wrinkles were filled up with 
thick layers of rouge and white enamel, and the whole 
expression was crafty, yet anxious. The application 
of paint had been neglected on certain parts of the 
face, and the omission brought out oddly the man’s 
decrepitude and his leaden skin. It was impossible not 
to laugh at that strange head, with the pointed chin 
and the projecting forehead, resembling, as it did, 
those grotesque wooden faces carved in Germany by 
shepherds during their waiting hours. 

If an observer had examined alternately this old 
Adonis and Raphael, he would have seen in the mar- 


The Magic Skin. 


227 


quis the eyes of a young man behind a mask of old 
age, and in this strange being the sunken eyes of de- 
crepitude beneath the mask of youth. Valentin tried 
to recall where and under what circumstances he had 
seen the strange old mumm}’, now fashionably booted 
and cravatted, crossing his arms and clicking his heels, 
as if he had all the vigor of petulant youth at his com- 
mand. His step had nothing constrained or artificial 
about it. An elegant coat, carefull}’' buttoned, covered 
a strong and bony frame, giving him the general look 
of an old dandy who clings to the last fashion. This 
extraordinary puppet, full of life, had all the charms of 
an apparition to Raphael ; he gazed at him as though 
he were some smoke-dried Rembrandt, recently re- 
stored, varnished, and put in a new frame. This com- 
parison suddenly brought light into the tangle of his 
confused recollections ; he recognized the old antiquary, 
the man to whom he owed his misery. 

At that instant a sort of silent laugh came from the 
fantastic being, and stretched his cold lips, already 
strained over a set of false teeth. As he noticed it, 
Raphael’s vivid imagination showed him the striking 
likeness between this man and the ideal heads which 
painters give to the Mephistopheles of Goethe. Super- 
stition seized upon the strong mind of the young man ; 
he suddenly believed in the power of the Devil, in the 
witchcraft of the Middle Ages handed down to us in 
legends and by the poets. He turned with horror from 
the fate of Faust, and prayed heaven with a sudden 
impulse, like that of the dying, for faith in God and 
the Virgin Mar}'. A pure and radiant light showed 
him the heaven of Michael Angelo and of Sanzio Urbino, 


228 


The Magic Skin, 


the parting clouds, the white-bearded old man, the 
winged heads, and a beautiful woman rising from the 
lambent glory. He comprehended, he grasped the idea 
of those glorious creations whose human mission ex- 
plained to him his probation and gave him hope. 

But, as his eyes came back to the foyer of the opera- 
house, he saw, not the Virgin, but the odious Euphrasia. 
The danseuse, with her light and supple bod}^ clothed 
in a dazzling dress, and covered with oriental pearls, 
went up to the impatient old man, exhibiting her person, 
her bold and insolent brow, her sparkling eyes, to the en- 
vious and calculating crowd, as though to proclaim the 
boundless wealth of the old lover whose treasures she 
was dissipating. Raphael recollected the jeering wish 
with which he had accepted the fatal present of the 
antiquar}’, and he tasted the sweets of vengeance as he 
beheld the deep humiliation of that high wisdom whose 
overthrow had so lately seemed impossible. The cen- 
tenarian greeted Euphrasia with a charnel smile, to 
which she responded by words of love ; he offered her 
his shrunken arm, made two or three turns up and 
down the foj’er and welcomed with delight the compli- 
ments and eager looks bestowed upon his mistress, 
without perceiving the sneering laughter and the cutting 
jeers of which he was the object. 

“ In what cemetery did that young ghoul disinter 
him?’^ cried the most elegant of the romanticists. 

Euphrasia smiled. The speaker was a young man with 
fair hair and brilliant blue e3’es, slender and lithe in fig- 
ure, wearing a small moustache, a short frock-coat, and 
his hat over one ear ; his prominent gift was a livelj’ 
power of repartee, — the onl}' language of his school. 


Tlie Magic Skin, 


229 


“How many old men,’’ thought Raphael, “end a 
life of honor and uprightness, of toil and virtue, by 
such folly ; see that one, with his cold feet, making 
love! Well, monsieur,” he said, stopping the old anti 
quary and flinging a glance at Euphrasia, “ have you 
forgotten the stern maxims of your philosophy ? ” 

“Ah,” replied the old Adonis, in a quavering voice, 
“ I am now as happy as a young man 1 I took life at 
the wrong end ; the whole of it is summed up in an 
hour of love.” 

At this moment the spectators were recalled by the 
stage-bell, and they all hurried to take their seats. 
Raphael and the old man parted. As the marquis 
entered his box he saw Fedora on the other side of the 
theatre, exactly opposite to him. Apparently, she had 
just arrived, and was throwing her scarf aside, and 
displaying her throat, with the Indescribable movements 
of a beauty engaged in placing herself becomingly. All 
eyes were turned to her. A young peer of France ac- 
companied the countess, and she presently asked him 
for the opera-glass she had allowed him to carry. The 
gesture and the look she gave this new companion were 
enough to tell Raphael the tyranny to which he was 
subjected. Fascinated, no doubt, as he himself had 
been, like him struggling with the mighty power of 
a true love against the cold calculations of a hard 
woman, the young man was, in all probability, suffer- 
ing the torments from which Valentin had now es- 
caped. An expression of joy came upon Fedora’s face 
when, after turning her glass upon all the boxes and 
rapidly surveying all the toilets, she was conscious of 
eclipsing by her dress and by her beauty the prettiest 


230 


The Magic Skin, 


and the most elegant women in Paris. She began to 
laugh, and show her white teeth, and to move her head, 
and the quivering wreath of flowers that adorned it. 
Her e3^es went from box to box, ridiculing here a 
turban awkwardl}^ placed on the head of a Russian 
princess, there an ugl}’ bonnet which disfigured the 
daughter of a banker. Suddenl3" she turned pale as 
she met Raphael’s fixed gaze ; her rejected lover with- 
ered her with an intolerable glance of contempt. None 
of her other banished lovers denied her charm. Valentin 
alone showed her that he was safe from her seductions. 
When Power is once defied with impunit3^, it is tending 
toward ruin. This maxim is more deeply engraved in 
the heart of woman than in the head of kings. Fedora 
saw in Raphael the death of her prestige. A speech of 
his, uttered a few nights earlier, had gone the rounds of 
all the salons in Paris, and the slash of its epigram had 
given the countess a mortal blow. We can cauterize a 
wound, but we know no remedy for the hurt produced 
by speech. All the women present were looking alter- 
nately at the marquis and at the countess, and Fedora 
would gladly at that moment have consigned her enemy 
to the dungeons of the Bastille, for she well knew that 
in spite of her talent for dissimulation her rivals guessed 
her sufferings. 

During the interlude between the first and second acts, 
a lady seated herself close to Raphael in the adjoining 
box, which had hitherto been empty. A murmur of ad- 
miration went through the house. The sea of human 
faces turned in a tide toward her, and all e3’es gazed at 
the beautiful unknown. Young and old made so pro- 
longed a stir during the time when the curtain was dowp 


The Magic Skin, 


231 


that the musicians in the orchestra turned to discover 
the reason. The women were bus}^ with their opera- 
glasses, and the old men, renewing their youth, rubbed 
the lenses of theirs. But the enthusiasm subsided by 
degrees as the curtain went up, and all was again 
orderl3\ Good society’, ashamed of having yielded to 
a spontaneous feeling, returned to its aristocratic cold- 
ness and its polished manners. Rich people do not like 
to be surprised and delighted by anything ; the}^ try to 
seize at once on some defect in a fine work, and so 
release themselves from the vulgar sentiment of admi- 
ration. A few men, however, neglecting the music, 
remained lost in natural and honest admiration of 
Raphael’s neighbor. Valentin noticed in one of the 
lower boxes the ignoble and fiorid face of Taillefer, who 
was accompanied b^^ Aquilina. Next he saw Simile 
standing in the stalls, and seeming to sa}" to him, “ Whj'^ 
don’t 3'ou look at that beautiful creature beside 3'ou?’' 
And then Rastignac, accompanied by a 3’oung woman, 
doubtless a widow, who sat twisting his gloves like a 
man in despair at being chained where he was, and un- 
able to get nearer to the enchanting unknown. 

Raphael’s life depended on a compact, still unbroken, 
which he had made with his own soul ; he had pledged 
himself not to look with interest on an^’ woman. Still 
under the dominion of the terror he had felt in the 
morning, when, on the mere expression of a civil wish 
the talisman shrank visiblj", he firmly" resolved not to 
turn in the direction of his neighbor. Seated like a 
duchess with his back in the angle of the box, he rudely 
obstructed his neighbor’s view of half the stage, and 
seemed purposel3' to ignore the fact that a pretty 


232 


The Magic Skin, 


woman was behind him. The lady, on the other hand, 
did much as he did. She rested her elbow on the edge 
of the box and looked at the singers with her head at 
three quarters, as if sitting for her picture. The two 
were like a pair of lovers who, having quarrelled and 
turned their backs on one another, are ready to em- 
brace at the first loving word. Occasionally the light 
swan’s-down on the lady’s mantle or a waft of her hair 
touched Raphael’s head, and gave him a sensation 
against which he struggled bravely; he heard the 
feminine rustle of a silken dress, and felt the imper- 
ceptible movement given by the act of breathing to 
the shoulders and the garments of the hidden woman, 
all of whose sweet being was suddenly communicated 
to Raphael as by an electric spark, the lace and the 
swan’s-down transmitting faithfully to his shoulder the 
delicious warmth of that other life. By the capricious 
will of Nature these two persons, held apart by good 
manners, separated by the fear of death, were breath- 
ing as one being and perhaps thinking of each other. 
The penetrating perfume of aloes completed Raphael’s 
subjugation. His excited imagination, roused by hin- 
drances which seemed almost fantastic, pictured the 
woman to his mind in lines of fire. He turned ab- 
ruptly. Shocked, no doubt, to find herself in such 
close contact with a stranger, the unknown lady made 
a like movement ; their faces, expressive of the same 
thought, were before each other’s eyes. 

“ Pauline ! ” 

“ Monsieur Raphael ! ” 

Petrified, they looked at each other a moment in 
silence. Raphael saw Pauline in a simple but elegant 


The Magic Skin, 


233 


dress. Through the gauze that covered her shoulders 
a practised eye could see the whiteness of the lily, and 
a shape that women themselves would have admired. 
Her virginal modesty, her celestial innocence, her 
graceful attitude were all there. The movement of 
the sleeve that covered the arm showed that the body 
was palpitating with the beating of her heart. 

“Oh, come to-morrow,” she said; “come to the 
Hotel Saint-Quentin and get your manuscript. I will 
be there at mid-day. Be punctual.” 

She rose hastily and disappeared. Raphael thought 
of following, but refrained, lest he should compromise 
her ; then he looked at Fedora and thought her ugly. 
Not being able to understand or even hear a note of 
the music, suffocating in the close air, and with a 
swelling heart he left the theatre and went home. 

“ Jonathas,” he said to his old servant as he was 
going to bed ; “ give me some laudanum on a piece of 
sugar, and do not wake me till twenty minutes of twelve 
to-morrow.” 

“ I wish to be loved by Pauline,” he said the next 
morning, looking fixedly at the talisman with inde- 
scribable anxiety. 

The Skin made no movement, — it seemed to have lost 
its contractile power; doubtless it could not grant a 
wish that was already accomplished. 

“Ah!” cried Raphael, feeling himself delivered as 
from a leaden mantle which he had worn since the day 
on which he had received the fatal gift, “ thou art a 
liar ; thou dost not obey me ; the compact is at an end. 
I am free I I shall live ! It was all a miserable joke.” 

Though he said these words, he dared not believe his 


234 


The Magic Skin, 


own thought. He dressed plainly, as in the old days, 
and went on foot to his former abode, tiying to take him- 
self back to those happ}" days when he could fearlessly 
yield to his passionate desires, and before he had learned 
to gauge all human enjoj^ment. He walked along think- 
ing, not of the Pauline of his attic-room, but the Pauline 
of the night before, that perfect mistress of whom he 
had dreamed, the brilliant, loving, artistic young girl, 
comprehending the poets, comprehending poetry and 
living in the lap of luxur}^ — in a word, Fedora en- 
dowed with a noble soul, or Pauline countess and mil- 
lionnaire. When he found himself on the broken 
doorstep and the worn-out threshold of that house 
where so often thoughts of despair had overwhelmed 
him, he was met by an old woman who said, — 

“ Are you Monsieur Raphael de Valentin?’* 

“Yes, my good woman,” he answered. 

“You know your old room,” she continued ; “ there ’s 
some one expecting 3’ou.” 

“ Is the hdtel still kept by Madame Gaudin? ” 

“Oh, no, monsieur; Madame Gaudin is now a 
baroness. She lives in a beautiful house of her own 
' across the river. Her husband has returned. Good- 
ness ! he brought back I don’t know how much mone3’. 
The}" say she has got enough to bu}" up the whole quar- 
tier Saint- Jacques if she liked. She gave me her busi- 
ness here and the remainder of her lease gratis. Ah, 
she ’s a good woman. She ’s not a bit prouder to-day 
than she was j^esterda}".” 

Raphael ran lightly up to his garret, and as he reached 
the last flight he heard the sound of the piano. Pauline 
was there, modestly attired in a cambric dress ; but the 


The Magic Skin, 


235 


fashion of it, the hat, the gloves, the shawl thrown 
carelessl}’ on the bed, all told of wealth. 

“Ah, here 3’ou are,” cried Pauline, turning her head 
and rising with a childlike movement of delight. 

Raphael sat down by her, blushing, abashed, and 
happ3’. He looked at her and said nothing. 

“Why did 3- ou leave us?” she asked, lowering her 
e3"es as the color rose in her cheeks. “ What became 
of you?” 

“ Ah, Pauline, I have been, I still am ver3" unhapp3\” 

“ I felt it,” she cried, much moved. “ I guessed it 
last night when I saw 3"Ou so well dressed, so rich ap* 
parentl3^ but in realit3' — tell me. Monsieur Raphael, 
is it as it used to be ? ” 

Valentin could not restrain himself ; tears filled his 
eyes as he cried out, “ Pauline ! — I — ” He could say 
no more, but his e3’es sparkled with love, his heart was 
in the look he gave her. 

“ Oh, he loves me, he loves me,” cried Pauline. 

Raphael made a sign with his head, for he felt him- 
self unable to utter a word. As she saw it, the young 
girl took his hand, pressed it, and said to him, half 
laughing, half sobbing : — 

“ Rich, rich, happy, rich ! thy Pauline is rich. But 
I ought to be poor this day ; a thousand times have I 
declared that J would give the wealth of the universe to 
hear him say ‘ I love thee ! ’ Oh, my Raphael ! I have 
millions. Luxur3' is dear to thee and thou shalt have it ; 
but thou must love my heart also, it is so full of love for 
thee. Let me tell thee all. M3" father has returned. I 
am an heiress. M3" parents allow me to decide m3' own 
fate. I am free, free, — dost thou understand me ? ” 


236 


The Magic Skin, 


Raphael held her hands in a sort of wild delirium, 
kissing them so passionately, so eagerly, that his kisses 
seemed like a convulsion. Pauline disengaged her hands 
and threw them on his shoulders, holding him ; they un- 
derstood each other, and heart to heart they embraced 
with that sacred, delicious fervor, free from all ulterior 
thought, which is granted to one only kiss, the first kiss, 
by which two souls take possession of each other. 

“ Ah,” cried Pauline, falling back in her chair, “I 
will never leave thee. — How is it that I am so bold ? ” 
she added, blushing. 

“Bold, my Pauline! Oh, fear nothing; it is love, 
true love, deep, eternal as my own ; tell me, is it not? ” 

“Oh, speak, speak, speak,” she said; “too long 
thy lips were mute to me.” 

“Didst thou love me in those early days? ” 

“ Ah, God ! did I not love him ? Many a time have 
I wept there as I put thy room in order, grieving for thy 
poverty and mine. I would have sold myself to a demon 
could I have spared thee grief. To-day, my Raphael — 
for thou art mine, mine that dear head, mine thy heart! 
Oh, yes, thy heart, thy heart above all, eternal wealth! 
Ah, where am I ; what was I saying? ” she cried, after 
a pause. ‘ ‘ I know, it was this, — we have three, four, 
five millions. If I were poor, I might desire to bear 
thy name, to be thy wife ; but now at this moment, I 
would sacrifice the whole world to thee. I would be 
ever and always thy servant. Raphael, if to-day I offer 
thee my heart, my love, my fortune, I give thee no more 
than what I gave that day when I placed there,” she 
said, pointing to the table-drawer, “ a certain five-franc 
piece. Oh, what grief thy joy caused me that day.” 


The Magic Skin. 


237 


“ Why art thou rich? ” cried Raphael. “ Why hast 
thou no vanity, no self, — I can do nothing for thee.” 

He wrung his hands with happiness, despair, and love. 

I know thee, celestial soul ! To be my wife, 
Madame la Marquise de Valentin, to have that title 
and my wealth is less to thee — ” 

“ — than a single hair of thine,” she cried. 

“I too have millions; but what is wealth to ua? 
Ah ! I have m3" life — m3’ life to offer thee ; take it.” 

“ Thy love, m3^ Raphael, is more to me than the 
whole universe. Wh3’, thy very thought is mine ; am 
I not in truth the happiest of the happ3" ? ” 

“ Can we be overheard?” said Raphael. 

“ Nay, there is no one,” she said, with a pretty 
gesture. 

“ Then come ! ” he cried, opening his arms to her. 

She sprang to him and clasped her hands around his 
neck. ■ “Kiss me,” she said, “ for all the griefs thou 
hast made me suffer ; for all the suffering th3" jo3’s 
once gave me ; for all the nights I spent upon my 
screens.” 

“ Thy screens? ” 

“ Since we are rich, m3" treasure, I can tell thee all. 
Poor darling ! how eas3" it is to deceive a man of genius. 
Can white waistcoats and clean shirts be had daily for 
three francs of washing a month? And 3’ou drank 
twice as much milk as 3'our mone3" could buy. Oh ! I 
tricked 3"ou in everything, — fuel, oil, mone3" even. Oh, 
m3" Raphael, don’t take me for 3’our wife,” she cried, 
laughing, “ I am too wily.” 

“ But how did you manage it? ” 

“ I painted till two o’clock ever3" night,” she said, 


238 The Magic Skin. 

“ and I divided the price of my screens between my 
mother and you.” 

They looked at each other for a moment, bewildered 
with joy and love. 

“Oh!” cried Raphael. “We shall pay for this 
happiness by some frightful grief — ” 

“Are you married?” cried Pauline. “Ah! I will 
not yield thee to any woman.” 

“ I am free, my treasure.” 

“ Free ! ” she repeated. “Free, and mine ! ” 

She slipped to her knees, clasping her hands and 
looking up to Raphael with passionate devotion. 

“ I fear I am going mad. How noble thou art ! ” she 
cried, passing her hand through his blond hair. “ Ah ! 
how stupid she was, that countess of thine, Fedora ! 
What delight it gave me last night to please those 
people at the theatre. She was never honored with such 
a tribute. Listen, dearest ; when my shoulder touched 
thy arm, a voice cried within me. He is there! I 
turned and saw thee ! Oh, I fled away, for the desire 
seized me to fall upon thy neck in face of all the 
world.” 

“ Thou art happy in being able to speak,” cried 
Raphael ; “as for me, my heart is in a vice. I want 
to weep, and I cannot. No, leave me thy hand. 
Would that I could stay beside thee all my life, look- 
ing at thee thus, happy — happy and content.” 

“Ah! say those words again, my love.” 

“What are words?” said Valentin, letting a hot 
tear fall upon Pauline’s hand. “ Later I will try to tell 
thee of my love ; now I can but feel it.” 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, “ that noble soul, that loft3^ genius, 


The Magic Skin, 239 

that heart I know so well, are mine, all mine, even as I 
am his — ” 

“ — forever and ever, my gentle creature,” said 
Eaphael, deeply moved. ‘‘ Thou wilt he my wife, my 
guardian spirit. Thy presence has alwa3’s driven away 
my griefs and refreshed m3’’ soul ; at this moment th3^ 
smile does, as it were, purify me. I believe a new life 
opens to me. The cruel past and my sad follies seem 
to me like evil dreams. Beside thee I am pure. 1 
breathe the air of happiness. Oh ! be with me ever,’' 
he cried, pressing her solemnl3’ to his beating heart. 

“ Let death come now,” cried Pauline, in ecstasy, 
“for I have lived.” 

Happy he who can divine their joys, for he has known 
them. 

“ My Raphael,” said Pauline, after a short silence. 
“I should like to think that no one could ever enter 
this dear garret.” 

“Then we must wall up the door, put iron bars to 
the window, and bu3’’ the house,” said the marquis. 

“ Ah, so we will,” she cried ; then after a moment’s 
silence, she added, “thy manuscripts — we have for- 
gotten them.” 

And they both laughed with innocent delight. 

“ Bah ! what care I for all the science of the world,’* 
cried Raphael. 

“ Ah, monsieur, but think of fame.” 

“ Thou art my fame ! ” — 

“ He was unhapp3' when he wrote those words,” she 
said, turning over the leaves of the manuscript. 

“ My Pauline — ” 

“ Yes, yes, I am thy Pauline. Well, what then? ” 


240 


The Magic Skin, 


“ Where do you live? ” 

“ Rue Saint-Lazare, and thou?” 

“ Rue de Varennes.” 

“ We shall be so far from each other until — ” She 
stopped and looked at her lover with a shy, coquettish 
air. 

“ But,” said Raphael, “ it can only be for a week or 
two at most that we are separated.” 

“ Can it be? shall we be married in fifteen days?” 
she sprang up like a child. “ Ah, but I am a bad daugh- 
ter,” she said. “ I think no more of father, mother, — 
I think of nothing in the world but thee. Thou dost not 
know, poor darling, that my father is ill. He returned 
from the Indies so feeble that he came near dying at 
Havre, where my mother and I went to meet him. Oh, 
heavens ! ” she cried looking at her watch ; “ it is three 
o’clock. I must be back when he wakes up at four. I 
am mistress of the house, for my dear mother does all 
I wish, and my father adores me ; but I will never abuse 
their goodness, it would be wrong. Poor father ! he 
sent me to the opera last night. You will come and 
see him to-morrow, will you not ? ” 

“ Will Madame la Marquise de Valentin do me the 
honor to take my arm ? ” 

“ Let me carry off the key of this dear room,” she 
said. “ Our treasure is a palace, is it not?” 

“ Pauline, one more kiss.” 

“ A thousand ! Ah, my love,” she said, looking at 
Raphael, “ will it be ever thus, or am I dreaming? ” 

They slowly descended the stairs ; and thus united, 
step by step, trembling under the weight of the same 
happiness, pressing closely together like doves, they 


The Magic Skin. 


241 


reached the place de la Sorbonne, where Pauline’s car- 
riage was in waiting. 

“ I wish to go home with you,” she cried. “ I want 
to see your room, your study ; to sit beside the table 
at which you work. It will seem like old times,” she 
added, blushing. “ Joseph,” she said to the footman, 
“ I shall go to the rue de Varennes before returning 
home. It is a quarter past three ; I must be home at 
four. Tell George to press the horses.” 

And the two lovers were soon at the H6tel Valentin. 

“ Oh, how glad I am to have seen it all,” cried Pau- 
line, stroking the silken curtains which draped the bed. 
“ I can now think of thy dear head upon that pillow. 
Tell me, Raphael, did any one advise thee how to 
furnish these rooms?” 

“ No one.” 

‘ ‘ Truly ? No woman ? ” 

“Pauline!” 

“ I feel a dreadful jealousy. What exquisite taste 
thou hast ; to-morrow I will make my room like thine.” 

Raphael, beside himself with happiness, caught her 
in his arms. 

“ And now let me go to my father,” she said. 

“I shall go with you,” cried Valentin, “let us not 
be parted more than we can help.” 

“ How loving 3^ou are I ” 

“ Are 3’ou not m3’ life ? ” 

It were wearisome indeed to recount the pretty elo- 
quence of love, to which the tones, the looks, the ges- 
tures alone give value. Valentin took Pauline to her 
home, and then returned to his, with a heart as full 
of pleasure as a man can feel and bear in this low 
16 


242 


The Magic Skin. 


world. When he was once more seated in his arm- 
chair beside the fire, thinking of the sudden and com- 
plete realization of his highest hopes, a chill thought 
crossed his mind like the steel of a knife cutting through 
his breast. He looked up at the Magic Skin ; it had 
shrunk. He uttered the great French oath, but with- 
out the Jesuitical reservations of the Abbesse des An- 
douillettes, leaned his head on the back of his chair, 
and remained long with his e3'es fixed upon the drapery 
of a window, but without seeing anything. 

“ Good God ! ” he cried, at length. “ What, every 
desire, all? Oh, poor Pauline ! ” 

He took a pair of compasses and measured how much 
of life that morning’s joy had cost him. 

“ I have but two months more,” he said. 

A cold sweat issued from his pores ; suddenl}' he 
obe^’ed an irrepressible impulse of anger and seized 
the Skin, crying out, “ I am a fool ! ” Then he rushed 
from the house and through the garden, and fiung the 
talisman to the bottom of a well. 

Vogue la galeref” he cried; “come what may. 
To the devil with such nonsense ! ” 

Raphael now abandoned himself to the joy of loving, 
and lived heart to heart with his Pauline. Their mar- 
riage, retarded by a few difficulties, uninteresting to 
the reader, took place early in March. The}" had tried 
each other and felt no doubts ; happiness revealed to 
them the strength of their affection, and no two souls, 
no two natures were ever more perfectly united than 
theirs by love. Studjdng themselves, they grew to love 
each other better ; on either side the same delicac}", the 
same modest}', the same enjoyments of the soul, — the 


The Magic Skin. 


243 


sweetest of all enjoyments, that of the angels. No 
clouds were in their sky ; by turns the wishes of the 
one were a law to the other. Both were rich ; there 
were no caprices they could not satisfy, and therefore 
they had no caprices. An exquisite taste, a feeling for 
the beautiful, a true sense of poetry was in the nature 
of the wife ; despising the baubles of wealth, one smile 
of her lover was more to her than the pearls of Ormuz. 
Muslin and flowers were her choicest adornment. By 
mutual consent they avoided society, for solitude was 
to them so fruitful, so beautiful. People saw the 
charming pair at the opera or at the theatres, and if 
some gossip ran the rounds of the salons, soon the rush 
of events caused them to be forgotten, and left alone 
to their happiness. 

One morning when the weather had grown warm 
enough to give promise of the joys of spring, Pauline 
and Raphael were breakfasting in a small conserva- 
tory, a sort of salon fllled with flowers, on a level with 
the garden. The sun’s rays falling through rare shrubs 
warmed the atmosphere ; the contrasting colors of the 
leafage, the clustering flowers, and the capricious varia- 
tions of light and shade, were enlivening to the eye. 
While all Paris was still warming itself by cheerless 
hearths, the young couple were laughing in a bower 
of camellias and heaths and lilacs. Their joyous heads 
were side by side among narcissus and lilies of the val- 
ley and Bengal roses. The floor of the conservatory 
was covered with an African mat, colored like a carpet. 
The walls, hung with green canvas, showed not a trace 
of dampness. The furniture was apparentl}^ of rough 
wood, but the bark shone with cleanliness. A kitten 


244 


The Magic Skin. 


crouching on the table, attracted by the scent of the 
milk, allowed Pauline to paint its whiskers with coffee 
as she kept it at arm’s length from the cream, tantaliz- 
ing it to continue the play, laughing with all her heart 
at its antics, and endeavoring to prevent Raphael from 
reading the newspaper, which had dropped many times 
from his hand. The prett}^ morning scene was full of 
inexpressible happiness, like all else that is natural and 
true and gay. Raphael pretended to read his paper, 
but he was all the while furtively watching Pauline as 
she frolicked with the cat, — his Pauline, w'rapped in a 
long white morning dress, which scarcely concealed her 
shape, his own Pauline, with her hair flowing and her 
little white feet veined with blue in their velvet slip- 
pers. Charming in dishabille, fairy-like as a figure of 
Westall’s, she was girl and woman both, perhaps more 
girl than woman ; her happiness was without alloy, and 
she knew love onl}^ through its earlier jo3’s. 

J ust as Raphael, wholly' absorbed in his sweet reverie, 
dropped his journal for the tenth time, Pauline caught 
it, crumpled it into a ball and flung it into the garden, 
where it rolled, like the politics it contained, over and 
over upon itself, pursued by the kitten. When Ra- 
phael, roused b}’ the scene, made a movement to pick 
up his paper, their joj^ous laughter broke forth and died 
away, and came again like the song of birds. 

“ I am jealous of that newspaper,” cried Pauline, 
wiping the tears her meriy laughter had occasioned. 
“It is feloiy,” she asserted, becoming once more a 
woman, “ to read those Russian proclamations in m}^ 
presence, and to prefer the prose of the Emperor 
Nicholas to the words and looks of love.” 


The Mayic Skin. 


245 


“ I was not reading, my love, my darling ; I was 
looking at you.” 

At this moment the heavj’ step of the gardener, grind- 
ing on the gravel, was heard near the greenhouse. 

“ I beg pardon, Monsieur le marquis, if I interrupt 
you and madame ; but I bring 3'ou a curiosity, the like 
of which I never saw. In drawing a bucket of water 
just now I brought up a queer marine plant. Here it is. 
Strange, though it lives in the water, it is n’t wet nor 
even damp ; it is as dr}’ as a bit of wood, and not the 
least swollen. As Monsieur le marquis knows so much, 
T thought it would interest him.” 

So saying, the man showed Raphael the inexorable 
Skin, now reduced to a surface of six square inches. 

“ Thank you, Vaniere,” said Raphael ; “ the thing is 
very curious.” 

“My angel, what is the matter?” cried Pauline; 
“you have turned pale.” 

“ Leave us, Vaniere.” 

“Your voice frightens me,” cried the young girl; 
“ it is so strangely altered. What is it? How do you 
feel ? Where is the trouble ? Oh, you are ill ! A doc- 
tor ! ” she cried. “ Jonathas, help ! ” 

“ My Pauline, hush,” answered Raphael, recovering 
his presence of mind. “ Let us leave this place ; there 
is a flower somewhere about, whose perfume turned me 
faint. Perhaps it was that verbena.” 

Pauline darted on the harmless plant, seized it by the 
stem, and flung it into the garden. 

“Oh, angel!” she cried, straining Raphael to her 
breast in a clasp as strong as love itself, and putting her 
coral lips with plaintive coquetry to his, “ as I saw thee 


246 


The Magic Skin. 


turning faint, I knew I could not survive thee. Thy life 
is iny life, Raphael : feel, pass thy hand along my back ; 
I felt a death-blow there ; I am all cold. — Thy lips are 
burning, but thy hand is ice,’^ she added. 

“ Silly girl,” cried Raphael. 

“ Why those tears? Ah, let me drink them ! ” 

“ Oh, Pauline, Pauline, we love each other too well.” 

“ Something strange is happening within thee, Ra- 
phael. Be true with me, for I shall know thy secret 
soon. Give me that,” she said, taking the Magic Skin. 

“ It is my death,” cried the young man, casting a look 
of horror at the talisman. 

“ Oh, what a change in his voice ! ” exclaimed Pauline, 
letting fall the fatal symbol. 

“ Dost thou love me? ” he said. 

“ Do I love thee? Canst thou ask it?” 

“ Then leave me, leave me. Go ! ” 

The poor girl left him. 

“ Can it be,” cried Raphael when alone, “ that in 
this age of discovery, when we have even learned that 
diamonds are cr3^stals of carbon, an epoch when all 
things are explained, when the police would indict a 
new Messiah before the courts and submit his miracles 
to the Academ^r of Sciences, a da^’ when the world be- 
lieves in nothing but the deeds of a notary, can it be 
that I am believing — I — in a sort of Mene, Mene, 
Tekel, Upharsin? No, b}’ God himself, I will not think 
that the All-Powerful can find pleasure in torturing a 
human soul. I will consult some man of science.” 

Before long Raphael was standing between the W ine 
Market, an immense collection of hogsheads, and the 


The Magic Skin. 


247 


Salpetriere, an immense seminary of drunkards, at a 
certain spot where, in a little pool, a number of ducks 
were disporting themselves, all remarkable as rare 
species, whose prismatic colors, like the windows of a 
cathedral, were sparkling in the rays of the sun. All 
the ducks of the world were there, quacking, dabbling, 
diving, like a duck parliament assembled against its 
will, but happily not possessed of a charter or political 
principles, and living out their days undisturbed by the 
guns of sportsmen, under the e3'es of naturalists, who 
occasionally looked them over. 

“ Here is Monsieur Lavrille,” said one of the janitors 
of the establishment to Raphael, who had asked to see 
the great pontiff of zoology. 

The marquis now beheld a little man plunged in deep 
meditation over the study of a pair of ducks. This 
learned professor, who was of middle age, had a natu- 
rally gentle face, made still more kindl}^ by an obliging 
manner; but the chief expression of his person was 
scientific preoccupation. His wig, perpetually’ scratched 
and shoved to one side, showed a line of w’hite hair be- 
low it, and seemed to indicate a fury of research which, 
like all other passions, tears us so completely from the 
things of life, that we even lose the consciousness of 
this self. Raphael, a student and a man of science, 
admired the naturalist, whose day’s and nights were 
consecrated to the advancement of human knowledge, 
whose very- errors might be said to be the glory of 
France; a fashionable lady, however, would have 
laughed at the solution of contiguity between the 
breeches and the striped waistcoat of the learned 
man, an interstice chastely filled up by a shirt con- 


248 


The Magic Skin. 


siderably rumpled by his exertions as he bent over, and 
kneeled down, and rose up at the mercy of his zoological 
investigations. 

After a few opening remarks by way of courtesy, 
Raphael thought it only politic to pay Monsieur Lavrille 
a commonplace compliment upon his ducks. 

“ Oh, yes, we are rich in ducks,” said the naturalist. 
“The genus is, as you are no doubt aware, the most 
prolific in the order of palmipeds. It begins with the 
swan and ends with the zinzin duck, and comprises 
one hundred and thirtj^-seven varieties of perfectly dis- 
tinct individuals, all having their own name, their man- 
ners and customs, their habitation, their physioguom}^, 
and no more resembling one another than we resemble 
negroes. In fact, monsieur, when we eat a duck we 
have little idea what that involves — ” He interrupted 
himself to watch a pretty little creature that was wad- 
dling up the slope out of the pool. “ You see there 
Buflbn’s cravatted goose, poor child of Canada, come 
from afar to show us his gray and brown plumage and 
his jaunty white neck-cloth. Look ! he is scratching 
himself. There’s the famous down goose, in other 
words, the Eider-duck, beneath whose quilts our ladies 
of fashion lie ; is n’t she pretty ? Who would n’t ad- 
mire that blush- white breast of hers, and the green 
bill ? I have just mated two species which I have long 
despaired of breeding from, and I await the result im- 
patiently. I hope to obtain a hundred and thirtj^-eighth 
species, to which perhaps my name may be given. There 
they are,” he said, pointing out two ducks. “ One is the 
laughing goose {anas albif vans') ^ the other is the great 
whistling duck {anas rufina of Buflbn). I hesitated 


The Magic Skin. 


249 


long between the whistling duck, that duck with the 
white irides, and the shoveller-duck (anas clypeata). 
See, there’s the shoveller, that big chestnut-brown 
fellow, with the glossy green throat so coquettishl}^ 
iridescent. But the whistler was crested, monsieur, 
and you can easily understand that that carried the 
day. All we want to complete the collection is the 
variegated duck with a black cap. Our gentlemen are 
unanimous in declaring that duck to be only a hybrid 
of the teal, with a crooked bill. As for me — ” He 
made a gesture equally* expressive of the modest}" and 
the pride of learning, — pride full of obstinacy, modesty 
replete with self-sufficiency, — “I don’t think so. You 
see, my dear monsieur, we don’t waste our time on 
amusements here. At this very moment I am busy 
with a monograph on the genus duck. But neverthe- 
less I am at your service.” 

As they walked toward a rather pretty house in the 
rue de Buffon, Raphael produced the Magic Skin and 
showed it to Monsieur Lavrille. 

“ I know that product,” said the man of science, 
after levelling his eye-glass on the talisman. “It is 
often used to cover cases. Shagreen is a very ancient 
article. In these days manufacturers prefer to use the 
skin of the raja sephen^ which is, as you doubtlesa 
know, the shark of the Red Sea.” 

“ But this, monsieur, if you will have the gi’eat kind- 
ness to — ” 

“ This,” said the learned man, interrupting Raphael, 
“ is another thing altogether. Between the raja sephen 
and the onagra there is, I admit, all the difference that 
there is between earth and ocean, between fish and 


250 


The Magic Skin. 


quadruped. Nevertheless the fish-skin is harder than 
shagreen. This,” he continued, fingering the talisman, 
“is, as you doubtless know, one of the most curious 
products of zoology.” 

“ Explain it,” said Raphael. 

“In the first place,” said the man of science, plung- 
ing into his armchair, “ it is the skin of an ass.” 

“ I know that,” said the young man. 

“ There exists in Persia,” resumed the naturalist, 
“ an extremely rare ass, the onager of the ancients, 
equus asinus^ the koulan of the Tartars. Pierre- 
Simon Pallas went to those regions to examine it ; he 
gave it to science. Indeed, the animal had long been 
regarded as mythical or extinct. It is mentioned, as 
you know, in H0I3’ Scripture ; Moses forbade that it 
should breed with its congeners. But the wild ass is 
still more famous for its singular remedial properties, 
often alluded to by the Biblical prophets, and which 
Pallas himself mentions, as 3’ou doubtless remember, 
in his ‘Act; Petrop,’ volume II., where he says they 
are still accepted among the Persians and Afghans as 
a panacea for sciatic gout, and all diseases of the 
lumbar regions. We poor Frenchmen would be glad 
to know of that. The Museum does not possess a 
single onager. What a splendid animal ! ” cried the 
man of science. “Full of mystery! his eye is fur- 
nished with a species of reflector, to which the Orientals 
attribute a gift of fascination ; his coat is more exquis- 
itely shining than that of our best-groomed horses ; it 
is striped with tawny lines, and bears a strong resem- 
blance to the zebra. The animal’s hair is soft and 
smooth, and unctuous to the touch ; his sight is fully 


The Magic Skin. 


251 


equal in reach and precision to a man’s ; he is rather 
larger than our finest domestic ass, and possesses ex- 
traordinary courage. If by chance he is overtaken or 
surprised, he defends himself with remarkable intelli- 
gence against other wild beasts ; as for the rapidit}" 
with which he moves, it can be compared onl}" to the 
flight of birds. An onager, monsieur, can out-run 
the fleetest Arab or Persian horses. According to the 
father of the conscientious doctor, Niebuhr, whose re- 
cent death, as j^ou doubtless know, we now deplore, 
the ordinary pace of these wonderful creatures is seven 
thousand geometric strides per hour. Our degenerate 
donke3’S give no idea of this proud, daring animal. He 
is nimble in action, livelj^ intelligent, shrewd, graceful 
in appearance and in movement. He is, in fact, the 
zoological king of the East. Turkish and Persian su- 
perstitions both ascribe to him a m^’sterious origin, and 
the name of Solomon is mingled with the traditions 
that are current in Thibet and Tartar}^ about the prow- 
ess of the noble animal. A tamed wild ass would be 
worth vast sums of money ; it is nearly impossible to 
capture them among their mountain fastnesses, where 
they spring from rock to rock like goats, or seem to 
fly like birds. The fable of Pegasus, the winged horse, 
no doubt took its rise from them. The saddle asses, 
obtained in Persia by mating the female ass with a 
tamed onager, are dyed red according to immemorial 
tradition ; and that custom is perhaps at the bottom of 
our proverb, ‘ Wicked as a red ass.’ At an epoch 
when natural history was at a low ebb in France, some 
traveller must, I think, have brought back with him 
one of these curiously painted animals, who became 


252 


The Magic Skin, 


impatient in confinement, — hence the sa3fing. The 
leather which 3’ou show me,” continued the learned 
man, “is made from the skin of the wild ass. There 
is a difference of opinion as to the origin of its name, 
‘ shagreen.’ Some say that it comes from the Turkish 
word Saghri^ signifying the rump ‘of an ass; others 
insist that the same word is the name of a town, where 
the hide of the wild ass was first subjected to the 
chemical preparation so well described b3^ Pallas, and 
which gives it the granulated surface we admire so 
much : but Monsieur Martellens writes me that Sdagkri, 
or Ckdagri^ is a rivulet.” 

“ Monsieur, I thank 3^ou for giving me all this in- 
formation, which would furnish admirable notes to 
some Dorn Calmet, if Benedictines still existed ; but I 
have the honor to point out to 3^011 that this small 
piece of skin was, not long ago, as large as — that 
atlas,” said Raphael, looking about him, “ and for the 
last three months it has been visibl3^ shrinking.” 

“ Well, I understand that,” said the man of science. 
“All remains of animal life, primitive^ organized, 
are liable to a natural deca3’, which is eas3' to compre- 
hend, and the progress of which depends largel3’ 
mospheric influences. Even metals expand or contract 
perceptibly ; for engineeVs often notice considerable 
spaces between huge stones, held closel3" together origi- 
nally b3^ bands of iron. Science is vast, human life is 
short ; therefore we can hardly hope to master all the 
phenomena of nature.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Raphael, rather bewildered, “ ex- 
cuse the inquiry I am about to make of 3’ou. Are 
you quite sure that this Skin comes under the general 


Magic Skin. 253 

laws of zoology ; can it be stretched back to its former 
size ? ” 

“Undoubtedly — Plague take it ! ” cried Monsieur 
Lavrille, vainly trying to stretch the talisman. “ Mon- 
sieur,” he added, “you had better go and see Plan- 
chette, the celebrated professor of mechanics ; he can 
certainly find a way to act upon that Skin, to soften 
and distend it.” 

“Ah, monsieur, 3^ou save my life.” 

Raphael bowed to the wise man, and betook himself 
at once to Planchette, leaving Lavrille in a stud}" filled 
with vials and dried plants. He brought away with 
him, unawares, the whole of human science, — a no- 
menclature I The worthy naturalist was like Sancho 
Panza relating the story of the goats to Don Quixote ; 
he amused himself by counting the animals and num- 
bering them. With one foot in the grave, he knew as 
yet only a tiny fraction of the incommensurable num- 
bers of the great herds flung by God, for some mysteri- 
ous purpose, across the lands and seas of the universe. 
Raphael, however, was satisfied. 

“ I can bridle my ass, now,” he thought to himself. 
Sterne had said before him: “ Spare your ass, if you 
would live to old age.” But the beast is certainly an 
unaccountable one. 

Planchette was a tall, lean man, a poet lost in per- 
petual contemplation of an abyss without a bottom, 
namely, motion. Ordinary persons cast the reproach 
of madness upon these glorious minds, these souls un- 
comprehended, who live in noble indifference to luxury 
and life, capable of smoking all day long an unliglited 
cigar, or of entering a salon without always marrying the 


254 


The Magic Skin. 

buttons of their garments to the buttonholes. Some 
day, after long sounding of the void, after piling up the 
X's under Aa — Gg, they find they have analyzed some 
natural law and decomposed the simplest of elements ; 
then suddenly the world at large admires a new mech- 
anism, or some vehicle of the understanding, whose facile 
construction amazes and confounds us. The modest 
man of science smiles and says to his admirers, — 

“ What, think you, I have created? Nothing. Man 
cannot invent a force ; he directs it. Science consists 
in following nature.” 

Raphael came upon the mechanician, standing rigid 
on his two legs, like a man fallen plumb from a gib- 
bet on which he has been hanged. He was watching 
a marble as it rolled over a sun-dial, and waiting 
anxiouslj" till it stopped. The poor man was neither 
pensioned nor decorated, for he knew nothing about ex- 
hibiting his science. Happy in the quest of discovery, 
he thought of neither fame nor money, nor even of him- 
self ; he lived in science for the sake of science. 

“ Well, there ’s no end to it,” he cried, still watching 
the marble. Then noticing Raphael, he said, “ Mon- 
sieur, I am your most obedient ; how is the mamma ? 
Go and see my wife.” 

“ I could have lived that life,” thought Raphael, who 
proceeded to draw the student from his reverie by show- 
ing him the Magic Skin, and asking to be told how to 
soften and distend it. “ Though you may laugh at my 
credulity, monsieur,” said the marquis, after stating the 
case, “ I shall hide nothing from you. This Skin has, 
as I think, a power of resistance against which nothing 
can avail.” 


255 


The Magic Skin, 

“ Monsieur,” said Planchette, “ men of the world 
are apt to treat science cavalierly. They all say to 
us pretty much what the Incro3’able said to Lalande 
when he escorted a lady to the observatory after the 
eclipse was over, — ‘Will you have the goodness to 
begin again ? ’ What effect are j’ou seeking to pro- 
duce ? The end and aim of mechanics is to applj- the 
laws of motion or to neutralize them. As to motion in 
itself, I declare to 3’ou with humilit3" that we are power- 
less to define it. That acknowledged, we have dis- 
covered some of the unvar3ing phenomena which govern 
the action of fluids and solids. B3" reproducing the 
generating causes of those phenomena, we are able to 
move substances and transmit to them a locomotive 
power (up to a certain ratio of limited rapidit3'), to 
start their motion, to divide them simpl3’ or indefi- 
nitely, whether we break them or pulverize them. We 
can also twist them and produce rotar3' motion, modify, 
compress, dilate, or stretch them. This science rests 
on a single fact. You see that marble, monsieur. It 
is here on this stone ; now it is over there. By what 
name shall we call that act so physically natural and 
so morall3" unaccountable ? Motion, action, locomotion, 
change of place? What self-sufRcienc3" is in those 
words? A name, — is that a solution? Yet it is the 
whole of science. Our machinery employs or decom- 
poses that motion, action, fact. The slight phenomenon 
before 30U, brought to bear on solid masses, can blow 
up Paris. We increase speed by expending force, and 
force by expending speed. What are force and speed? 
Science is unable to reply, just as she is unable to 
create motion. Motion, of an3' kind, is an immense 


256 


The Magic Skin. 


power, and man has never invented powers. Power is 
one, like motion, which is indeed the essence of power. 
All things are motion. Thought is motion. Nature 
rests on motion. Death is a motion whose range is 
as yet little known to us. If God is eternal, we must 
believe that he is ever in motion ; God is, perhaps, mo- 
tion itself. Thus motion is as inexplicable as God, 
as profound, unlimited, incomprehensible, intangible. 
Who has ever handled, understood, or measured mo- 
tion? We feel its effects without seeing it. We can 
even deny its existence, as we deny that of God. Where 
is it? where is it not? Whence comes it? What is the 
principle of it? Where will it end? It is every- 
where around us ; it presses upon us, and yet evades 
us ! As a fact, it is evident ; as an abstraction, it is 
obscure, being, as it is, cause and effect in one. It re- 
quires, as we do, space; and what is space? Motion 
alone reveals it to us ; without motion it is merely a 
word devoid of meaning, an insoluble problem, like 
chaos, like creation, like the infinite. Motion defies 
human thought, and the onlj’ conception man is allowed 
to obtain of it is that he can never conceive of it. Be- 
tween each of those points which that marble has suc- 
cessively occupied in space,” continued the learned man ; 
“ there lies an abyss for human reason ; into that abyss 
fell Pascal. To act upon an unknown substance, we 
must first study that substance ; according to its own 
nature it will either break under a shock or resist it. 
If it breaks in two and your intention is not to divide 
it, we fail of the proposed end. Do you wish to com- 
press it? You must transmit an equal motion to all 
parts of the substance, so as to diminish uniformly- the 


The Magic Skin. 


257 


space that separates them. On the other hand, do you 
desire to stretch a substance ? Then j ou must endeavor 
to give each molecule an equal eccentric force ; for, un- 
less that law is carefullj^ observed, we shall produce 
solutions of continuity. There are, monsieur, an in- 
finite number of methods and endless combinations in 
motion. What effect are you seeking?” 

“ Monsieur,” said Raphael, impatiently, “ I seek 
some method suflSciently powerful to stretch this Skin 
indefinitely.” 

“ The substance being complete in itself,” said the 
mathematician, “it cannot be indefinitely distended; 
pressure will, however, necessarily increase its surface 
size at the expense of its thickness ; it will grow thinner 
and thinner until the substance fails — 

“ Obtain that result, monsieur,” cried Raphael, “ and 
you will have earned millions.” 

“ I should simply steal your money,” said the man of 
science, phlegmatic as a Dutchman. “ I will show you 
in two words the existence of a machine under which 
the Creator himself would be crushed like a fly. It re- 
duces man to the condition of a bit of blotting-paper ; 
yes, a booted, sparred, cravatted man, gold, jewels, 
hat, and all, — ” 

“ What a horrible machine ! ” 

“ Instead of flinging their children into the water, 
those Chinese ought to have utilized them in this very 
way,” continued the man of science, without regard to 
man’s respect for his progeny. 

Absorbed in his idea, Planchette took an empty 
flower-pot with a hole in the bottom, and placed it 
on the sun-dial; then he fetched a small quantity of 


258 


The Magic Skin. 


cla}’’ from a corner of the garden. Raphael stood 
watching him like a child, charmed with some won- 
derful tale told by its nurse. Placing the clay upon 
the dial, Planchette drew a pruning-knife from his 
pocket, cut two branches of elder, and began to empty 
them, whistling to himself as though Raphael were not 
present. 

“ Here are the elements of the machine,” he said. 

He now fastened one of the wooden tubes at right 
angles to the bottom of the flower-pot with a portion 
of the clay, so that the hollow end of the elder branch 
corresponded with the hole in the flower-pot. The 
whole looked now like an enormous pipe. He then 
spread a layer of the clay on the sun-dial, shaping it 
in the form of a shovel, set the flower-pot on the widest 
part, and placed the branch of elder on the part repre- 
senting the handle of the shovel. Next, he put a quan- 
tity of cla}^ at the end of the elder- tube, and inserted 
the other tube again at right angles, making an elbow 
of the clay to join it flrmly to the horizontal branch, so 
that the air, or any given ambient fluid, could circulate 
through the improvised machine from the opening of 
the vertical tube along the intermediary canal, into the 
empty flower-pot. 

“Monsieur, this contrivance,” he said to Raphael, 
with the gravity of an Academician pronouncing his 
initiatory discourse, “ is one of the great Pascal’s highr 
est claims to reverence.” 

“ I do not understand 3’ou.” 

The man of science smiled. He went to a fruit-tree 
and took down a little bottle (in which his apothecary 
had sent him a liquor to attract ants), broke off the 


The Magic Skin. 


259 


bottom of the vial and made a funnel of the rest, 
fitting it carefully to the open end of the vertical tube 
of elder, which brought it opposite to the grand reser- 
voir represented by the flower-pot. Then from a gar- 
den watering-pot he poured in enough water to come 
equally to the edge of the reservoir, and to the little 
circular opening of the vertical tube. Raphael’s thoughts 
wandered to his Magic Skin. 

“ Monsieur,” said the mechanician, “ water is sup- 
posed to be an incompressible substance ; don’t forget 
that fundamental principle ; nevertheless, it does com- 
press, but so slightlj^ that its contractile faculty ma3’^ 
be reckoned at zero. You see the surface of the water 
in the flower-pot ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Well, suppose that surface a thousand times larger 
than the oriflce of the elder-tube through which I poured 
in the water. Stay, I will take off the funnel.” 

“ I follow 3’ou.” 

“ Well, monsieur, if I increase the liquid mass by 
pouring more water through the oriflce of the little 
tube, the fluid, forced to go down, will rise up in the 
reservoir represented bj’ the flower-pot until the liquid 
reaches the same level in each.” 

“ That is evident,” said Raphael. 

“But there is this difference,” resumed Planchette ; 
“ the thin column of water added to the small vertical 
tube presents a force equal, let us sa}’, to a pound’s 
weight, and as its action is faithfully transmitted to the 
liquid mass, and reacts on all points of the surface of 
the reservoir, there will inevitably" be a thousand 
columns of water, all rising with a force equal to that 


260 


The Magic Skin. 


which sent down the fluid in the little vertical tube, 
and necessarily producing here,” said Planchette, point- 
ing to the opening of the flower-pot, ‘ ‘ a force one thou- 
sand times as powerful as the force introduced there,” 
pointing to the orifice of the tube. 

“ That is perfectly plain,” said Raphael. 

Planchette smiled. 

“In other words,” he resumed, with the tenacious 
logic of a mathematician, “ we must, in order to re- 
press the overflow of the water, bring to bear on all 
parts of the great surface a force equal to the force 
acting through the vertical conduit ; but with this differ- 
ence, that if the liquid column in it is only a foot high, 
the thousand little columns rising to the grand surface 
will have only a very feeble elevation. Now,” con- 
tinued Planchette, giving a flip to his sticks, “ suppose 
we replace this absurd little apparatus by metallic tubes 
of suitable power and dimension ; say that you cover 
with a strong movable plate the fluid surface of the 
reservoir, and upon that plate you place another whose 
strength and solidity will resist any strain ; and then 
continue to add to the force of the liquid mass by cease- 
lessly pouring more water through the vertical tube. 
An object, whatever it is, held between the two metal 
plates must yield to the enormous force brought to bear 
upon it. The means of steadily introducing water 
through the little tube is a mere nothing in mechanics, 
and so is the method by which the force of the liquid 
mass is transmitted to the plates. Two pistons and 
a few valves are enough for that. You now see, 
monsieur,” he said, taking Valentin’s arm, “ that there 
is no substance whatever which, if placed between 


The Magic Skin. 261 

these resistant forces, will not be compelled to extend 
itself.” 

"‘What!” exclaimed Raphael, “did the author of 
the ‘ Provincial Letters ’ invent — ” 

“ He himself, monsieur ; and the science of mechanics 
knows nothing more simple or more beautiful. The 
opposite principle, namel}’, the expansion of water, 
created the steam-engine. But water is expansive to 
a certain degree only, whereas its non-compressibility 
being, as it were, a negative force, is necessarily 
permanent.” 

“ If this Skin be extended,” said Raphael, “ I prom- 
ise to erect a s,tatue to Blaise Pascal, to found a prize 
of a hundred thousand francs for the finest discover^" in 
mechanics within each decade, and to build a hospital 
for mathematicians who may become poor or crazy.” 

“That would all be very useful,” said Planchette. 
“ Monsieur,” he resumed, with the tranquillity of a man 
living in a purely intellectual sphere ; “I will take 3’ou 
to-morrow to Spieghalter. That distinguished mech- 
anician has just constructed, from plans of mine, a per- 
fected machine b}-’ which a child could put a thousand 
bales of hay into his hat.” 

“ To-morrow, then, monsieur.” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ Talk of mechanics ! ” thought Raphael, as he went 
away ; “ it is the noblest of sciences. The other man, 
with his onagers, his classifications, his species, and his 
vials full of monstrosities, is, at best, like the marker 
of a public billiard-table.” 

The next day Raphael returned full of hope to join 
Planchette, and together they went to the rue de la 


262 


The Magic Skin* 


Sante, name of good augury. The young man soon 
found himself at Spieghalter’s vast establishment, sur- 
rounded by a number of roaring fier\" furnaces. The 
place was filled as with a rain of fire, a deluge of nails, 
an ocean of pistons, screws, levers, crossbars, files, and 
nuts, a sea of castings, valves, and bars of steel. Fil- 
ings choked the throat. Iron was in the atmosphere, 
men were covered with it, everything smelt of it ; iron 
was alive, it was an organism, it became a fluid, it took 
a hundred forms, it walked, it thought, it obeyed a 
capricious will. Through the roar of the forges, the 
crescendo of the hammers, the hissing of the lathes, 
Raphael made his way to a large room which was clean 
and airy, where he could examine at his ease the im- 
mense hydraulic press which Planchette had mentioned. 
He admired the joists, if we may so call them, of cast- 
iron, and the iron side-beams held together by inde- 
structible bolts. 

“If you were to turn that crank seven times rap- 
idl}",” Spieghalter said to him, pointing to a balance- 
wheel of polished iron, “ 3’ou would grind a plate of 
steel into a thousand particles, which would enter your 
flesh like needles.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” cried Raphael. 

Planchette himself slipped the Magic Skin between 
the two metal plates of the great machine, and then, 
calm in the security given by scientific convictions, he 
quickly turned the crank. 

“ Lie down, lie down, or we are dead,” cried Spieg- 
halter, flinging himself flat on the ground. 

A dreadful hissing echoed through the workrooms. 
The water contained in the machine burst the cast-iron, 


The Magic Skin. 


263 


and threw a jet of immense force, which fortunately 
struck an old piece of machinery, knocking it over, and 
twisting it out of shape like a house caught by a water- 
spout. 

“ Oh!” said Planchette, tranquillj", “that shagreen 
is still as sound as my eye. Master Spieghalter, there 
must have been a flaw in your cast-iron, or some inter- 
stice in the main tube.” 

“ No, no, I know my own iron. Monsieur may take 
away that thing of his ; the Devil is in it.” 

So saying, the German seized a blacksmith’s hammer, 
flung the Skin upon an anvil and, with the strength of 
anger, struck the talisman a blow, the like of which 
had never before resounded in his workshops. 

“ It shows no mark of it!” cried Planchette, strok- 
ing the rebel Skin. 

The workmen ran in. The foreman took the Skin 
and threw it among the live coal of the forge. All 
present ranged themselves in a half-circle round the 
fire, awaiting with impatience the result of a final and 
massive blow upon the strange substance. Raphael, 
Spieghalter, and Planchette, stood in the centre of the 
black and attentive crowd. Seeing those white eyes, 
those heads powdered with iron-filings, those grimy, 
shining garments, those hairy breasts, Raphael fancied 
himself transported to the weird nocturnal regions of 
German legends. The foreman seized the Skin with 
the tongs, after leaving it in the furnace for ten 
minutes. 

“ Give it to me,” said Raphael. 

The foreman held it out to him in jest. Raphael 
held it, cold and supple, in his fingers. A cry of 


264 


The Magic Skin. 


horror rose ; the workmen fled. Valentin was left 
alone with Planchette in the deserted workshop. 

“ It is diabolic,” said Raphael, in accents of despair. 
“ No human power can save my life.” 

“ Monsieur, I did wrong,” said the mathematician 
in a contrite tone. “We ought to have submitted that 
extraordinary Skin to the action of a rolling-mill. How 
came I ever to have advised you to try compression? ” 
“ I asked it of you myself,” replied Raphael. 

The man of science gave a sigh of relief, like that of 
a guilty man acquitted by a jury. Nevertheless, deeply 
interested by the strange problem of the Skin, he re- 
flected a few moments, and then said : — 

“ This mysterious substance ought to be treated by 
reagents. Let us go and see Japhet; Chemistry may 
do more with it than Mechanics.” 

Valentin put his horse at speed, hoping to find the 
great chemist, Japhet, still at his laboratory. 

“ Well, my old friend,” said Planchette, perceiving 
Baron Japhet in his armchair, watching a precipitate, 
“ how is Chemistry going on? ” 

“ Asleep. Nothing new. The Academy has, how- 
ever, admitted the existence of saliciue. But salicine, 
asparagine, glucin, and digitalin are not discoveries.” 

“ You seem to be reduced to inventing names,” said 
Raphael, “ for lack of power to invent things.” 

“ True, by heaven, young man ! ” 

“ Come,” said Planchette to the chemist, “ try to 
decompose this substance for us : if you can extract 
any sort of principle from it I ’ll call you Diabolus ; 
for in trying to compress it we have just blown up an 
hydraulic press,” 


The Magic ^kin. 


265 


“ Let me see it, let me see it ! cried the chemist 
jo3'fully, “ it ma}’ be some undiscovered simple sub- 
stance.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Raphael, “it is really nothing 
more than a piece of ass’s skin.” 

“ Monsieur?” said the chemist, gravely. 

“ I am not joking,” said the marquis, giving him the 
Skin. 

Baron Japhet applied the sensitive test of his tongue 
to the strange product ; that tongue so capable of dis- 
tinguishing salts, acids, alkalies, gases ; and then he 
said, after a few attempts, — 

“It has no taste. Well, I’ll give it a bath of 
fluorine.” 

Subjected to the action of that element, which is quick 
to decompose animal tissues, the Skin underwent no 
change. 

“ It is not shagreen at all,” cried the chemist. “ Let 
us treat it as a mineral, and knock it in the head by 
putting it in a melting-pot, where I happen to have 
at this moment some red potassium.” 

Japhet left the room, but soon returned. 

“Monsieur,” he said to Raphael, “may I take a 
small piece of this strange substance? it is something 
very extraordinary.” 

“A piece!” cried Raphael, “no, not a hair’s 
breadth ; but you cannot if 3’ou would. Trj^,” he added, 
in a tone that was half-sad, half-jeering. 

The chemist broke a razor in his efiTorts to cut the 
Skin ; then he tried to crack it by a strong shock of 
electricity ; next he subjected it to the full force of a 
voltaic battery, until at last all the thunderbolts of 


266 


The Magic Shin, 


science had been fruitless!}^ launched against the dread- 
ful talisman. It was seven o’clock in the evening. 
Planchette, Japhet, and Raphael, oblivious of the flight 
of time, were awaiting the result of a last experiment. 
The shagreen came out victorious from a terrible shock 
due to a certain quantity of chloride of nitrogen. 

“ I am a dead man ! ” cried Raphael. “ The finger 
of God is in it. I must die.” 

He left the house without another word to the two 
men, who remained wonders truck. 

“We had better not sa}^ a word of this at the Acad- 
emy ; our colleagues would simply laugh at us,” said 
Planchette to the chemist, after a tolerably long pause, 
during which they looked at each other without daring 
to communicate their thoughts. They were like Chris- 
tian believers coming out of their tombs and finding no 
God in heaven. Science powerless ! acids, pure water ! 
red potassium dishonored ! electricity and a voltaic pile 
no better than a cup and ball ! 

“An hydraulic press shattered like an egg-shell!” 
exclaimed Planchette. 

“ I believe in the Devil,” said Baron Japhet, after a 
moment’s silence. 

“ And I in God,” responded Planchette. 

The two spoke according to their lights. To a 
mechanician the universe is a machine, which implies a 
workman ; but as for chemistry — that science of a devil 
who goes about decomposing everything, — to chemistry 
the world is nothing but a gas endowed with motion. 

“We can’t deny the fact,” said the chemist. 

“ Bah ! to console us, the dullards of the world have 
invented that nebulous maxim, ‘ Stupid as a fact.’ ” 


The Magic Skin. 267 

With that they went off and dined together like men 
who saw only a phenomenon in a miracle. 

By the time Valentin reached home he had fallen 
into a state of cold anger; he no longer believed in 
anything; his ideas were befogged in his brain, his 
thoughts reeled and vacillated like those of all other 
men in presence of an impossible fact. He had readily 
believed that there was some secret defect in Spieg- 
halter’s machine ; the impotence of science and of fire 
surprised him little ; but the suppleness of the Skin 
when he touched it, and its hardness against every 
means of destruction within the power of man, terrified 
him. That incontestable fact made his brain reel. 

“ I am mad,” he thought. “ Though I have eaten no 
food since morning, I am neither hungry nor thirsty, 
and yet flames are consuming me within.” 

He replaced the Magic Skin in the frame from which 
he had taken it, and after drawing another red line 
round the present outline of the talisman, he seated 
himself once more in his easy-chair. 

“ Already eight o’clock ! ” he said. “ The day has 
gone like a dream.” 

He put his elbows on the arms of his chair, and 
leaned his head upon his left hand, giving himself up 
to funereal reflections, to those awful thoughts whose 
secret is carried to the grave by prisoners condemned 
to death. 

“ Oh, Pauline ! ” he cried aloud. “ Poor child ! there 
are gulfs which love cannot pass, no matter how strong 
its pinions.” At this instant he distinctly heard a 
smothered sigh, and recognized, by a most touching 
privilege of passion, the breath of his Pauline. “ Oh ! ” 


268 


The Magic Skin. 


he said, “it is my death-warrant. If she were here 
I would seek death in her arms.” 

A joyous ripple of laughter made him turn his head 
toward the bed, and he saw through its transparent 
curtains the sweet face of his wife, smiling like a happy 
child at a successful piece of mischief. Her beautiful 
hair fell in curls upon her shoulders ; she looked like a 
Bengal rose on a mound of white roses. 

“ I coaxed Jonathas,” she said. “Don’t scold me, 
dearest ; I could not sleep awaj' from you. Forgive me 
ni}^ folly,” and she sprang from the bed like a kitten, 
radiant in her clouds of muslin as she nestled on 
Raphael’s knees. “ What gulf were you talking of, 
dear love? she asked, an anxious expression crossing 
her brow. 

“ Of death,” he answered. 

“You hurt me,” she said ; “ there are some thoughts 
on which we poor women cannot bear to dwell, — they 
kill us. Is it from force of love, or lack of courage? 
I know not. But death does not frighten me,” she 
added, laughing. “ To die with thee, to-morrow, to- 
gether, in a last kiss — ah ! it would be happiness ! 
I should still have lived a hundred j^ears. Why meas- 
ure time by days and years, when in one hour we live 
a lifetime of peace and love ? ” 

“Right, right,” he said, “the heavens are speaking 
through thy pretty mouth ; let me kiss it, and let me 
die.” 

“Let us die,” she answered, laughing. 

Toward nine o’clock in the morning, daylight was 
shining through the interstices of the outer blinds ; 
softened by the muslin curtains it showed the rich 


The Magic Shin. 


269 


colors of the cai’pet and the silken coverings of the fur- 
niture, while touches of gilding sparkled here and there. 
A sunbeam quivered on the eider-down quilt which had 
slipped from the bed ; hanging to a tall psyche-glass, 
the dress Pauline had taken off the night before looked 
like a misty apparition. Her tiny shoes were at some 
distance from the bed. The low warbling of a night- 
ingale in a tree beside the window, and the whirr of his 
wings as he suddenly took flight, awakened Raphael. 

“ Death,” he said, continuing a thought begun in a 
dream, “ can only come if my organization, this mech- 
anism of flesh and bones vitalized by my will, which 
makes me an individual man, undergoes some morbid 
change of structure or of functions. The doctors ought 
to know the symptoms of departing vitality ; they can 
tell me if my state is health or disease.” 

He looked at his sleeping wife, whose arm was about 
his neck, still expressing, even in sleep, the tender 
anxieties of her love. Her attitude was graceful as 
that of an infant ; she lay with her face toward him, 
and seemed to be still looking at him and putting up 
the pretty lips which were slightl}^ parted by her pure 
and equable breathing; a smile flickered upon them, 
showing the white teeth that heightened their rosy 
freshness. The glow of her complexion was more 
vivid, and its whiteness, so to speak, more white at 
this moment than during all the loving hours of the 
day. The graceful, easy attitude, so full of confldence, 
added the adorable beauties of sleeping childhood to 
the charms of love. All women, even the most natu- 
ral, obey in their waking hours certain social conven- 
tions which repress the native instincts of their soul ; 


270 


The Magic Skin. 


but sleep seems to give them back the spontaneity of 
being which adorns infancy. Like one of those dear 
and celestial beings with whom the mind has forced 
no thought into the gestures, no secrets into the ej^es, 
Pauline blushed at nothing. Her profile was clearly 
defined against the fine linen of the pillow-case ; quill- 
ings of lace mingled with her stra3’ing hair and gave 
her a half-roguish look ; but she had fallen asleep 
happy, and the long ej-elashes lay upon her cheek as 
if to protect the eyes from too sudden an awakening, 
or to aid that composure of the soul which seeks to 
retain the memory of a perfect though fugitive happi- 
ness. To see her thus asleep, smiling in her dreams, 
peaceful under his protection, loving him even in a 
vision, wrapped in her love as in a mantle, chaste in 
the presence of disorder, was to a man like Raphael 
happiness unspeakable. He looked about the room 
surcharged with love and redolent of memories, where 
the sunlight was now brightening the glowing tints ; 
then his eyes reverted to the woman beside him, 3’oung, 
loving, and pure, whose every feeling was his without 
alloy. Passionatel3^ he desired to live. His glance 
wakened her, and she opened her eyes as though a ray 
of sunshine had struck them. 

“ Good-morning, friend,” she said, smiling. “ Ah! 
how beautiful thou art 1 ” 

The two heads, glowing with a grace that came of 
love, of youth, of the soft half-lights and silence, made 
one of those divine pictures whose fleeting magic be- 
longs to the earlier da^^s of passion, just as artlessness 
and candor are the attributes of childhood. Alas I 
these spring-time joys of love, like the laughter of 


271 


The Magic Skin. 

youth, take mugs and live in our memory only to 
drive us to despair, or shed some consoling fragrance 
upon our lives, according to the capricious changes of 
our secret thoughts. 

“Why did you wake?” said Raphael. “It gave 
me such happiness to watch you sleeping, that I wept.” 

“ And I, too,” she answered. “ I wept last night 
as I watched thee, but not with happiness. Listen to 
me, oh, my Raphael, listen ! When asleep, thy 
breathing is not free and unconstrained ; something 
sounds in thy chest which frightens me ; that dry and 
hacking cough is like my father’s, and he is dying of 
consumption. I fancy I hear in thy lungs the strange 
murmurings of disease. And 3’ou have fever, I am 
sure of it ; last night j^our hand was moist and burn- 
ing. My darling, thou art so young,” she said, shud- 
dering; “surely thou canst be cured, even if — but 
no, no,” she exclaimed jo^^ously, “there’s no fear; 
and if there were, that disease is contagious, the physi- 
cians say ” — and she flung her arms around him, and 
breathed his breath in one of those Arm kisses where 
two souls touch each other — “ I do not wish to grow 
old,” she said. “ Let us die young, and go to heaven, 
together, our hands filled with flowers.” 

Such thoughts come only to those who have health,” 
answered Raphael, burning his hands in Pauline’s hair ; 
but a horrible flt of coughing seized him, — the deep- 
seated sonorous cough which seems to come from a 
coffin, terrifying its victims, and leaving them trem- 
bling and sweating after shaking their nerves, straining 
their spinal marrow, and sending a mysterious leaden 
heaviness through their veins. Raphael fell back, pale 


272 


The Magic Skin. 


and exhausted, like a man whose strength has been 
spent in some last effort. Pauline looked at him with 
staring eyes, widened by fear, and remained motionless, 
white, and silent. 

“ Let us talk no more nonsense, my angel,” she said 
at length, trying to hide from Raphael the horrible 
presentiment that seized her. 

She covered her face with her hands, for suddenly 
she beheld the hideous skeleton of Death. Raphael’s 
head had grown livid and hollow, like a skull brought 
from a cemeterj^ to assist the studies of science. Pau- 
line recollected his exclamation of the night before, and 
said, as if to herself : — 

“ Yes, there are abysses which love cannot cross, — 
but it may bury itself in them.” 

A few days after this melancholy scene, Raphael was 
seated one morning in an armchair, surrounded by four 
physicians, who had placed him under the full light of 
a window, and were taking his pulse, feeling him all 
over, and questioning him with an appearance of in- 
terest. The patient sought to discover their secret 
thoughts, endeavoring to interpret each gesture, and 
the slightest frown that came upon their foreheads. 
This consultation was his last hope. These supreme 
judges were about to render a decree of life or death. 
He had called in the four greatest oracles of modern 
medicine, that he might wring from human science its 
utmost knowledge. Thanks to his money and to his 
name, the three systems between which the judgment 
of mankind fluctuated were here present. Three of 
these ph3^sicians brought with them the whole of medi- 


The Magic Skin, 


273 


cal philosoph}", — representing in their persons the con- 
flict between Spiritualit}", Analysis, and a certain sar- 
castic Eclecticism. The fourth physician was Horace 
Bianchon, a man full of promise and science, perhaps 
the most distinguished of the modern doctors ; the wise 
and modest representative of the studious youth -who 
prepare themselves to gather in the heritage of wisdom 
laid up, during the last fifty years, in the Ecole de Paris, 
and who may perhaps produce the monumental work 
for which preceding centuries have gathered so much 
diverse material. He was the intimate friend of Ras- 
tignac and of Valentin ; for the last few da,ys he had 
attended the latter professionally, and was now helping 
him to answer the questions of the three professors, to 
whom he occasionally explained, with a certain insist- 
ence, the symptoms which, as he thought, betraj^ed 
pulmonary consumption. 

“ You have, no doubt, led a life of excess, and given 
yourself up to great efforts of mind ? ” said one of the 
doctors, whose square head, broad face, and vigorous 
organization seemed to show a genius superior to that 
of his antagonists. 

“ I have tried to kill myself by excess, after toiling 
for three years at a great work which may occupy your 
minds some of these da^’^s,” answered Raphael. 

The great man nodded his head with apparent satis- 
faction, as though he were saying to himself, “ I was 
sure of it ! ” 

This was the illustrious Brisset, chief among the 
“organists,*’ and successor to the school of Cabanis 
and Bichat, the positive and materialistic school, which 
sees in man a finite being subject solely to the laws of 
18 


274 


The Magic Skin. 


his own organization, whose normal state, or whose 
vitiated anomalies are explainable by natural causes. 

On receiving Raphael’s reply, Brisset glanced silently 
at a man of medium height, whose crimson face and 
ardent eye seemed to belong to some antique faun. 
Leaning against the window-casing, he was observing 
Raphael attentively, without saving a word. Doctor 
Cameristus, chief of the “ vitalists,” a man of exalted 
feelings and beliefs, a poetic defender of the abstract 
theories of Van Helmont, considered human life a lofty, 
secret essence, an inexplicable phenomenon which 
laughs at scalpels, deceives surgery, evades the drugs 
of the pharmacopoeia, the x of algebra, the laws of 
anatomy, and scoffs at Science ; a species of invisi- 
ble, intangible flame, subject to some divine law, and 
which often remains living in a human bod}^ condemned 
by the decrees of doctors, while as often it deserts 
organizations that seem to be full of life. 

A sardonic smile curled the lips of the third physi- 
cian, Doctor Maugredie, a man of distinguished intel- 
lect, but pyrrhonic and a scoffer, who believed in 
nothing but the knife, conceded to Brisset that a man 
could die who was perfectlj^ well, and agreed with 
Cameristus that a man might live even though he 
were dead. He saw something true in all theories 
and adopted none, declaring that the best medical 
sj^stem was to have no doctrines and to rel}^ only 
on facts. This Panurge of his school, king among 
observers, the great investigator and scoffer, the man 
of heroic methods, took up the shagreen talisman and 
examined it. 

“ I should like to witness the phenomenon you speak 


The Magic Skin. 


2T5 


of, — the coinciding of your desires with the shrinking 
of the leather,” he said to the marquis. 

“ What help would that be ? ” cried Brisset. 

“ What help indeed? ” echoed Cameristus. 

“ Ah ! you agree for once,” said Maugredie. 

“ The contraction is perfectly simple,” added Brisset. 

It is supernatural,” said Cameristus. 

“ The truth is,” said Maugredie, assuming a serious 
look and handing the Magic Skin to Raphael, “ the 
shrinking of leather is an inexplicable fact, at the same 
time a natural one, which from the dawn of ages has 
been the despair of surgery and of pretty women.” 

Valentin, eagerly watching the three doctors, was 
forced to perceive that they felt not the slightest sym- 
path}" for his sufferings. All three kept silence when he 
answered them ; looked at him coldly, and questioned 
him without compassion. Even their politeness was 
nonchalant. Whether their minds were made up, or 
whether they were still reflecting, their words were so 
few, their manner so lethargic, that Raphael thought 
them at times absent-minded. Brisset alone said, occa- 
sionally, “ Very well', very good,’’ in reply to Bianchon’s 
proofs of the more alarming sj^mptoms. Cameristus 
was plunged in his own thoughts. Maugredie was like 
a comic actor studying a pair of originals to produce 
them faithfully on the stage. The face of Horace 
Bianchon alone betrayed concern, even a tender pity 
that was full of sadness. He had practised his pro- 
fession too short a time to be indifferent to the suffer- 
ings of a dying man, or to restrain the friendly tears 
that dimmed his eyes. 

After spending perhaps half an hour in taking the 


276 


The Magic Skin. 


measure, as it were, of the sick man and his disease, as 
a tailor takes the measure of a 3"oung man for his wed- 
ding suit, they began to talk of ordinary matters, even 
politics, and soon after proposed to adjourn to Raphaers 
stud}" for consultation. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Raphael, “ maj’ I be present?” 

Brisset and Maugredie exclaimed vehemently against 
the request, and in spite of the patient’s insistence de- 
clared they would not consult in his presence. Raphael 
submitted to their etiquette, recollecting that he could 
slip into a side-passage and overhear their discussions. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Brisset, as the^^ entered the study, 
“ let me give 3^ou m3’ opinion at once. I neither wish 
to impose it upon you nor to make it a subject of con- 
troversy. It is clear, precise, and founded on the exact 
similarit3" of this case with that of another patient of 
mine ; moreover, I am much pressed for time, being 
wanted at my hospital. The importance of the operation 
which I am to perform must be m3^ excuse for thus seiz- 
ing the first word. The case we are now considering is 
worn out, as much by intellectual labor — b3" the bye, 
Horace,” he said, interrupting himself to question the 
young physician, ‘ ‘ what has he written ? ” 

“ A theory on the Will.” 

“ The devil ! well, that ’s a wide subject. He is worn 
out, I say, not onl3^ by excess in thought, but by ex- 
cesses of conduct and the repeated use of powerful 
stimulants. The violent action of brain and body thus 
induced has vitiated all the functions of the organism. 
It is easy to recognize in the visible S3^mptom8 of the 
face and body a tremendous irritation of the stomach, 
the neurotic condition of a high-strung temperament, a 


The Magic Skin, 


277 


sensitiveness of the epigastrium, and the contractions 
of hypochondria. You noticed, of course, the size 
and prominence of the liver. Monsieur Bianchon has 
watched the patient’s digestion, and says it is slow 
and labored. Properly speaking, there is no longer a 
stomach ; the man has practically disappeared. The 
intellect is atrophied because the stomach no longer 
digests. The progressive deterioration of the epigas- 
trium, the centre of life, has broken up the whole sj's- 
tem ; it reaches every part of the organism, more 
specially the brain through the nerve currents ; hence 
the excessive irritation of that organ. In fact, there is 
monomania. The patient is under the influence of a 
fixed idea. To him that Skin really appears to shrink ; 
though very likely it has always been just as we see it 
now. But whether it contracts or not, that bit of sha- 
green is to him like the fly the grand vizier had on his 
nose. Put leeches on the epigastrium at once ; calm 
the irritation of that organ, in which the whole life of 
man resides. Keep the patient to a strict diet, and 
monomania will cease. I have nothing more to say to 
Doctor Bianchon ; he is quite competent to seize the 
idea and carry out the treatment. Perhaps there may 
be some complications ; the respiratory passages may be 
irritated, but I think the treatment of the intestinal 
organs far more important, and more urgent than that 
of the lungs. Close study on abstract subjects and a 
few violent passions have produced this serious disturb- 
ance of the vital forces. However, there is still time to 
mend the springs and set the machine going again ; the 
harm done is not past remedy. You can easily save 
your friend,” he added, turning to Bianchon. 


278 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Our learned colleague mistakes effects for causes,” 
answered Cameristus. “ Yes, the deteriorations he has 
noticed have taken place ; but the stomach has not 
gradually and S3'stematically vitiated the whole organ- 
ism together with the brain, like the spreading of a 
crack in a pane of glass. Some original shock was 
needed to make the crack ; what was it ? what gave it ? 
do an}^ of us know ? have we studied the patient long 
enough to know? Gentlemen, the vital principle, Van 
Helmonifs archeus^ is attacked in this man ; vitalit}' it- 
self is attacked at its source, in its essence. The divine 
spark, the fleeting intelligence which holds the machin- 
ery together and produces will, the science of life, has 
ceased to control the dail}- phenomena of this human 
mechanism and the functions of each organ. Hence 
the disorders so well diagnosed by my learned associate. 
The deteriorating action did not pass from the stomach 
to the brain, but from the brain to the stomach. No,” 
he said, striking his own bodj’ forcibly, “I’m not a 
stomach made into a man ! No, that ’s not the whole 
of me. I have not the courage to declare that if I have 
a sound epigastrium ever3"thing else must be right with 
me. We cannot,” he continued, in a gentler tone, “ re- 
fer to one and the same physical cause, and put under 
uniform treatment, the serious disorders which are found 
in varying cases, more or less seriously" attacked. No 
man is like another man. We all have our own par- 
ticular organs, diversely affected, diversely nourished, 
fitted for various missions, and intended to carry out an 
order of things which is to us unknown. The fraction 
of the great All which b}" some higher will works within 
us the phenomenon called life^ is formulated in a distiiict 


The Magic Shin. 


279 


manner in each human being, making him apparently a 
finite being, but at one point co-existent with the Infi- 
nite. Therefore, we must study each case separately, 
penetrate its individual nature, recognize what m it is 
life, what its own peculiar power. Between the soft- 
ness of a wet sponge and the hardness of pumice-stone 
there are many gradations. Such is Man. Between 
the spongy organisms of the 13’mphatics and the metallic 
vigor in the muscles of some men destined to live long, 
what mistakes ma}^ not be committed by the iron-bound 
implacable sy stem of cure by depression, by the pros- 
tration of human forces which you choose to suppose 
irritated. In this case I should seek a mental and 
moral treatment, a searching examination of the inner 
being. Seek for causes in the entrails of the soul, not 
in those of the body ! A ph3"sician should be an in- 
spired being, gifted with a genius all his own, — one to 
whom God confides the power of reading the vital na- 
ture, just as he gave to his prophets the eyes to see into 
futurity, to his poets the faculty of evoking nature, to 
his musicians that of arranging sounds in harmonious 
sequence, whose type is perhaps on high ! ” 

“Pure absolutism, monarch}^ religion, —that 's his 
science of medicine ! ” muttered Brisset. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Maugredie, hastily, smothering 
Brisset’s remark, “ don t let us lose sight of our sick 
man, — ” 

“ This is Science ! ” thought Raphael, sadly. “ My 
cure hangs between a rosary and a chaplet of leeches, 
between the scalpel of Dupuytren and a prayer of the 
Prince of Hohenlohe ! On the dividing-line between 
word and deed, matter and spirit, stands Maugredie, 


280 


The Magic Skin, 


scoflSng ! The human yes and no pursue me. Always 
and forever the Carymary, Carymara of Rabelais. 
I am spiritually ill, carymary ! or materially ill, cary- 
mara ! Am I to live ? They ignore that. Flanchette 
at least had more honesty ; he said frankly, ‘ I don’t 
know.’ ” 

At this moment, Valentin distinguished the voice of 
Doctor Maugredie. 

‘"The patient is a monomaniac, — well, I agree to 
that,” he cried; “but he has two hundred thousand 
francs a year. Such monomaniacs are rare, and we 
owe them at least our best advice. As to knowing 
whether his epigastrium acts on his brain or his brain 
on his epigastrium, we can settle that when he is dead. 
But let us look at the immediate facts. He is ill, that ’s 
ver}’ certain. He must have some treatment. Never 
mind theories. Put on leeches if you will to quiet the 
intestinal irritation and the nervous condition, about 
which we are all agreed ; then let us send him olF to 
some Baths. This will meet both sj’stems. If he is 
consumptive, we can’t save him, and so — ” 

Raphael left the passage and returned to his arm- 
chair. The four physicians presently re-entered his 
room. Horace Bianchon was deputed to speak to 
him, and said : — 

“ These gentlemen have unanimously decided on an 
immediate application of leeches to the stomach, and the 
urgent necessity of a treatment that shall be both physi- 
cal and moral. In the first place, a dietetic regimen is 
prescribed to quiet the irritation of your organism — ” 

Brisset made a sign of approval. 

“ In the second, a hygienic treatment to give tone to . 


The Magic Skin. 


281 


your mental and moral condition. Therefore, we unani- 
mously advise you to go to Aix-les-bains in Savoie or 
to the baths of the Mont Dore in Auvergne, — either 
you prefer ; the air and the scenery of Savoie are more 
agreeable than those of the Cantal, but we wish you to 
please yourself.” 

Here Doctor Caraeristus gave signs of assent. 

“ These gentlemen,” continued Bianchon, “ having 
found some slight lesions in the respiratory organs, are 
quite agreed in approving my treatment of 3'Our case, so 
far. They think that your cure can easil}" be effected, 
and wiU depend on the judicious and alternate use of 
these two methods. And — ” 

“ This is wh}" your science is mute,” said Raphael, 
taking Bianchon into his stud^' and giving him the price 
of the useless consultation. 

“ They are logical,” said the young physician. Cam- 
eristus feels, Brisset examines, Maugredie doubts ; 
has n’t man a soul, a bod}^, a mind ? One or other of 
those three first causes acts more or less powerfully' with- 
in us ; there will always be a man behind all scientific 
convictions. Believe me, Raphael, we cannot cure ; we 
only' aid a cure. Between the science of Brisset and 
the science of Cameristus stands Expectant science ; 
but to practise it successfully we must know a patient 
ten y^ears. There ’s negation at the bottom of medi- 
cine just as there is in every' science. Try to live 
prudently ; make a journey to Savoie ; it is best, and 
always will be best, to trust to nature.” 

On a fine morning, about a month later, several visit- 
ors to the Baths of Aix, returning from their usual 


282 


The Magic Skin, 


promenade, met together in one of the salons of the 
Cercle. Sitting by an open window with his back to 
the company, Raphael remained isolated, plunged in 
one of those mechanical reveries in which our thoughts 
arise, link with each other, and vanish away taking no 
actual shape, passing through us, as it were, like fleet- 
ing clouds that are scarcely tinted. At such moments 
sadness is tender, joy is shadowy, and the soul is all 
but sleeping. Raphael, yielding to this sensuous ex- 
istence, drank in the pure and balm}' air of the moun- 
tains, and bathed in the warm atmosphere of the 
summer evening, happ}' in feeling no pain and in 
having at length reduced to silence the fatal talisman. 
Just as the last red tints of the setting sun were fading 
from the summits, the temperature grew chilly, and he 
closed the window. 

“ Monsieur,” said an old lady, “ will you have the 
kindness not to shut that window. We are suflbcat- 
ing.” 

The speech jarred on Raphael’s sensitive ears with 
peculiar sharpness ; it was like an imprudent word 
dropped by a friend in whom we wish to believe, and 
who destroys some sweet illusion of feeling by the be- 
trayal of an inward selfishness. He cast the chilling 
look of a diplomatist upon the lady who addressed him, 
then he called up a waiter and said to him dryly : — 

“ Open that window.” 

A look of amazement appeared on every face. The 
company began to whisper in low tones and to look at 
the sick man significantly, as if he had been guilty of a 
great impertinence. Raphael, who had never shaken 
off his natural shyness, felt abashed ; but he resolutely 


The Magic Skin. 


283 


came out of his torpor, recovered the energy of his 
mind, and asked himself the meaning of the strange 
scene. Suddenly and strangely a rapid action took 
place in his mind ; the past appeared to him in a vision 
where the causes of the feeling he inspired sprang into 
relief like the veins of a dead bod}’ when some natural- 
ist colors it to a semblance of life with a chemical in- 
jection. He recognized his own being in the fleeting 
picture ; followed his existence day by day and thought 
b}’ thought; he saw himself, not without surprise, 
gloom}’ and absorbed in the midst of the merry world, 
thinking only of his own destiny, preoccupied with his 
own griefs, disdaining even the most trifling intercourse 
with others, refusing those ephemeral intimacies that 
are quickly formed among persons who know they are 
not likely to meet again, thoughtless of others, like 
rocks as indifferent to the soft lapping of the waves as 
to their fury. Then, by a rare privilege of intuition, 
he read the souls of others ; he saw by the light of that 
inward torch the yellow skull, the sardonic profile of an 
old man whose money he had won without allowing him 
to take his revenge ; he saw a pretty woman to whose 
advances he had turned the cold shoulder ; every face 
in his vision reproached him for some ostensible injury, 
whose real crime lay in the invisible stabs he had given 
to self-love. Involuntarily he had wounded all the little 
vanities which gravitated round him. 

Sounding thus the hearts of others, he deciphered 
their secret thoughts ; he conceived a horror of society, 
its hollow politeness, its thin varnish. Rich and men- 
tally superior, he saw himself both envied and hated ; 
his silence baffled curiosity ; his reserve seemed hangh- 


284 


The Magic Skin. 


tiness to the pett}’ and superficial beings about him ; 
his keen perception enabled him to guess the latent 
unforgivable wrong of which he was guilty toward them, 
— he escaped the jurisdiction of their mediocritj". Re- 
belling against their inquisitorial despotism, he showed 
he could live without them ; and to avenge themselves 
for that regal assumption they instinctively banded to- 
gether to make him feel their power, to ostracize him, 
and let him know that they too could do without him. 
At first he was filled with pit}" at this aspect of the 
world ; then he shuddered as he thought of the supple 
power which thus enabled him to lift the veil of flesh 
that hides our diseased nature ; and he closed his eyes 
as if to see no more. A black pall fell upon that sinis- 
ter phantasmagoria of truth, and he felt himself alone 
in the horrible isolation that belongs to power. 

At this moment he was seized with a violent fit of 
coughing, and he heard, in place of the usual conven- 
tional sympathy, a hostile murmur, and a few com- 
plaints uttered in a low voice. Society no longer wore 
the veil of politeness, possibly because it was aware 
that he knew it too well. 

“ His disease is contagious.” 

“ The president of the Cercle ought to forbid his 
coming here.” 

“ Decency requires that no one shall cough in that 
way.” 

“Any man as ill as he ought not to come to the 
Baths. He will drive me, for one, out of the place.” 

Raphael rose to escape the general ill-will, and 
walked about the rooms. He looked for some friendly 
support, and presently approached a lady who seemed 


The Magic Skin. 


285 


unoccupied, intending to address her with a few com- 
pliments. But as he came near she turned her back, 
and pretended to be watching the dancers. Raphael 
dreaded lest this fatal evening had used up some of his 
talisman ; feeling neither the will nor the courage to 
make any further attempt at conversation, he left the 
salon hastily, and took refuge in the billiard- room. 
There no one spoke or even bowed to him. His natu- 
rally meditative mind showed him by an intussusception 
the general and rational cause of the aversion he in- 
spired. This little world at the Baths obeyed, perhaps 
without knowing it, the great law which regulates high 
society, whose implacable code had already full}" de- 
veloped to Raphael’s eyes. A backward glance showed 
him its type in Fedora. Neither in the one nor in the 
other could he ever have found sympathy for his suffer- 
ings, or comprehension for his heart. The great world 
banishes the sufferer from its midst, just as a man in 
vigorous health expels some morbid element from bis 
body. Society abhors sorrows and the sorrowful, hates 
them like a contagion, and never hesitates in its choice 
between them and vice, — vice is luxury. No matter 
how majestic grief may be, society knows how to be- 
little it, and to ridicule it with a witticism ; it draws 
caricatures and flings them at the heads of dethroned 
monarchs in return for affronts it fancies it has received. 
Like the young Romans of the Circus, society has no 
mercy for the dying gladiator ; it battens on gold, it 
lives by cruel mockery. “ Death to the weak,” is the 
cry of that equestrian order which exists among all the 
nations upon earth; and the sentence is written on 
hearts that are sodden in opulence or swollen by aris- 


286 


The Magic Skin, 

tocracy. Look at the children in a college school,* 
behold there a miniature image of society, all the more 
true because it is artless and honest. See those poor 
helots, creatures of pain and mortification, placed be- 
tween contempt and pity ; the gospel tells such as they 
of heaven ! Go a little lower in the scale of organized 
beings. If a fowl falls sick in a poultry-yard, all the 
others peck at it, pluck out its feathers, and finally kill 
it. Faithful to its code of selfishness, the world pun- 
ishes sorrows that dare to invade its feasts and dim 
its pleasures. Whoever suffers in body or soul, or lacks 
power and mone}", is a pariah in society. Let him stay 
in his own desert ; if he crosses the borders of it he 
enters arctic regions, he encounters cold looks, cold 
manners, cold hearts ; he is fortunate if he escapes in- 
sult in places where he ought to look for consolation. 
Stay on your deserted beds, 3’e dying ! Old men, live 
alone beside 3^our smouldering hearths ! Poor portion- 
less girls, freeze or burn in 3'Our solitar3^ chambers ! 
If the world tolerates a misfortune, it is that it may 
fashion it to its own uses, find some profit in it, saddle 
it, bit it, put a pack upon its back, and make it serve a 
purpose. Trembling companion of some old countess, 
look ga3* ! bear the whimsies of your pretended benefac- 
tress, carr3* her poodle, amuse her, fathom her, but be 
silent. And 3^ou, king of valets out of livery, impudent 
parasite, leave 3’our character behind you ; feed with 
your amphitryon, weep with his tears, laugh with his 
laughter, and call his witticisms wit; if you want to 
deny his virtues, wait till he falls. No, the world 
never honors misfortune; it drives it away, reviles, 
chastises, or kills it. 


287 


The Magic Skin. 

These reflections rose in Raphael’s mind with the 
suddenness of poetic inspiration. He looked about 
him, and felt the frigid atmosphere which society dif- 
fuses to drive emotion away from it, — an atmosphere 
which chills the soul more sharply than the north wind 
of December chills the body. Raphael crossed his 
arms and leaned against the wall, giving way to deep- 
est melancholy. He thought of the small amount of 
happiness this system of society procured for it. What 
was it all? — amusements without pleasure, gayety 
without joy, fetes without charm, sensuality without 
the enjoyments of the soul ; in short, the ashes of the 
hearth without a ray of flame. 

When he raised his head he saw that he was alone ; 
even the pla3"ers had left his presence. 

“ I could make them worship my cough if I showed 
them my fatal power,” he said to himself. As the 
thought crossed his mind, contempt, like a mantle, 
wrapped him from the world. 

On the morrow, the phj’sician of the Baths came to 
him and inquired with much courtesy as to his health. 
Raphael felt an emotion of joy as he listened to the 
friendly words. The doctor’s face was instinct with 
kindliness, the curls of his blond wig expressed phi- 
lanthropy ; the cut of his square coat, the folds of his 
trousers, his shoes, which were broad as a Quaker’s, 
all these things, even the powder shed from a little pig- 
tail on his slightly bent shoulders, bespoke the apostolic 
nature, expressed Christian charity and the self-devotion 
of a man who, out of zeal for his patients, had brought 
himself to playing whist and trictrac well enough to win 
their money. 


288 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Monsieur le marquis,” he said, after talking some 
time on indifferent subjects, “ I believe I can dissipate 
your sadness. I have watched your condition long 
enough to declare that the Parisian doctors, whose great 
genius I admire, are nevertheless mistaken as to the 
nature of your malady. Unless reduced by some un- 
foreseen circumstances. Monsieur le marquis, you have 
vitality enough to live to the age of Methusaleh. Your 
lungs are as strong as a blacksmith’s bellows, and your 
stomach might shame an ostrich. Nevertheless, if you 
remain in a mountainous atmosphere, you certainly risk 
your life. Monsieur le marquis will understand me 
when I explain m}^ meaning, which I will do in few 
words. Chemistry proves that respiration is an actual 
combustion of more or less intensity', according to the 
excess or deficienc}’’ of the phlogistic elements collected 
in the organism of each individual man. In you the 
phlogistic, that is, the inflammatorj" tendency abounds. 
You are, if I may so express it, over-oxygenated by the 
ardent nature which belongs to men who are destined to 
great emotions. By breathing the keen, pure air which 
stimulates life in men of phlegmatic fibre, you increase 
3’^our tendency" to rapid combustion. One of the condi- 
tions of your recovery is to live in the atmosphere of 
low regions, valle3^s. Yes, the vital air of the man of 
genius is among the rich pasturages of Germany, at 
Baden-Baden, or Toplitz. If you have no dislike of 
England, her foggy’ climate would calm your natural 
fever. But our baths, which are over one thousand 
feet above sea-level, will prove fatal to y’ou. At any 
rate, that is my opinion,” he added, with a modest 
gesture, “ and I give it against my own interests, 


The Magic Skin, 289 

because, if you follow it, we shall have the misfortune 
of losing you/’ 

Had he omitted those last words, Raphael would have 
been deceived by the false kindliness of the specious 
doctor ; but he was too good an observer not to notice 
the tone, the gesture, and the glance which uncon- 
sciously accompanied the last sentence of a mission 
which had no doubt been intrusted to him by a number 
of his more cheerful patients. Florid men of leisure, 
wearied-ont old women, wandering British tourists, and 
fashionable women escaping from their husbands and 
joined at the Baths by their lovers, were all banded 
together to drive away the pale and feeble dying man 
who was evidently incapable of resisting their daily 
persecution. Raphael accepted the struggle, and even 
foresaw some amusement in it. 

“ If my departure would disappoint you,” he replied, 
“ I think I can take advantage of j^our good advice, 
and yet remain here. To-morrow I will begin to build 
a house in which the air can be regulated to meet your 
prescription.” 

Rightl}’ interpreting the sarcastic smile which he saw 
on Raphael’s lips, the doctor bowed and went away 
without saying another word. 

The lake of Bourget is a vast cup of mountains 
notched at intervals, in whose depths, six or seven hun- 
dred feet above the Mediterranean, shines a drop of 
water bluer than any other water in the world. Seen from 
the summit of the Dent-du-Chat, the lake lies there like 
a lost turquoise. This lovely sheet of water is twenty- 
three miles in circumference, and in some places nearly 


290 


The Magic Skin. 

five hundred feet in depth. To float upon its glassy 
surface beneath a cloudless sky, to hear only the rhythm 
of the oars, to see nothing but the misty mountains or 
the sparkling snows of the French Maurienne, to glide 
by granite clifis, velvet-clothed with lichen, fern, and low- 
growing shrubbery, and then past smiling hillsides, — 
on one side a desert, on the other, nature’s best riches ; 
like to a pauper standing beside the dinner of opulence, 
— such harmonies and such contrasts compose a scene 
where all is grand and much is lovel3^ Mountains 
change the conditions of optical effects ; a fir-tree rising 
a hundred feet looks like a reed, broad valley's seem as 
narrow as footways. This lake is the only one where 
heart can speak to heart in confidence. Here we may 
think, here we may love. In no other spot on earth 
can you find so exquisite a unison of water and sky, 
mountains and valley. Here ma^' be found a balm for 
every ordeal of life. The peaceful region hides the 
secrets of grief, soothes, consoles, and lessens it, and 
gives to love a gravity, a composure, which renders pas- 
sion purer and even deeper ; here a kiss is magnified. 
But, above all, it is the lake of memories ; they take 
the color of its waves in whose bright mirror all 
things are reflected. Raphael could bear his burden 
here, and only here; surrounded by this calm land- 
scape, he could be indolent, and dreamer, and without 
desires. 

After the doctor’s visit he went out upon the lake, 
and made the boatman land him on a lonety point, at 
the foot of a pretty hill on which the village of Saint- 
Innocent is situated. From this tongrue of land the 
eye takes in the Mont de Bugey, around whose feet 


The Magic Skin, 


291 


flows the Rhone and the lower waters of the lake ; but 
Raphael loved best to contemplate from this point the 
melancholy abbey of Haute-Combe, the burial-place of 
the kings of Sardinia, situated on the opposite shore, 
and seeming to make obeisance before the mountains, 
like a palmer attaining the end of his pilgrimage. At 
this moment the cadenced beat of oars disturbed the 
stillness of the scene, and gave it a monotonous voice 
like the psalmody of monks. Surprised to encounter vis- 
itors in this usually deserted part of the lake, the mar- 
quis examined, but without coming out of his revery, the 
persons seated in the passing boat, and saw that one 
was the old lady who had so sharpty interfered with 
him the night before. As the boat passed him, Ra- 
phael noticed that the dame de compagnie of the lady, 
a poor old maid of noble family, bowed to him. 

He had already forgotten the incident, as the boat 
disappeared behind the promontory, when he heard 
close beside him the rustle of a dress, and the sound 
of a light step. Turning, he saw the poor companion, 
and judging from her nervous manner that she wished 
to speak to him, he advanced toward her. She was 
about thirty-six years old, tall and thin, cold and hard ; 
and like all old maids, who are usually embarrassed to 
know which way to look, her gait was undecided, con- 
strained, and without elasticity. Neither young nor 
old, and yet both, she expressed by a certain dignity 
of manner the high estimate which she put upon her 
qualities and perfections. She had, moreover, the dis- 
creet and monastic gestures of women who habitually 
take care of themselves, doubtless that they may not 
be found wanting for their destiny of love. 


292 


The Magic Skin. 


“ Monsieur, your life is in danger; do not enter the 
salons again,” she said to Raphael, taking a few steps 
backward, as if her virtue were already compromised. 

“ But, mademoiselle,” answered Raphael, smiling, 
“ will you not kindly explain yourself, since you have 
deigned to come here — ” 

“ Ah ! ” she said, “ without the powerful motive that 
has brought me, I should not have dared to risk the 
anger of Madame la comtesse, for if she knew that I 
had warned you — ” 

“ Who should tell her, mademoiselle ? ” cried Raphael. 

“ True,” said the old maid, with the blinking glance 
of an owl in the sunlight. “ Think of 3"Our safety,” 
she continued ; “ several young men are determined 
to drive you away ; they mean to insult you, and force 
you to fight a duel.” 

The voice of the old countess was heard in the 
distance. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said the marquis, “m3’ gratitude — ” 
His protectress had already left him at the sound of 
her mistress’s voice, which continued to screech be3’ond 
the rocks. 

“ Poor girl ! miseiy understands miser}’ and tries to 
succor it,” thought Raphael, sitting down under a tree. 

The key to all science is, undoubtedl}’, the note of 
interrogation ; we owe most of our great discoveries to 
the word “ How?” and the wisdom of life consists in 
asking ourselves at ever}’ turn, “ Why?” This second- 
hand prescience destroys our illusions, however. And 
so, Valentin, having taken, without intending to phi- 
losophize, the kind deed of the old maid as a text for his 
rambling thoughts, suddenly found it full of bitterness. 


The Magic Skin. 


293 


“ That an old dame de compagnie should fancy me/* 
he thought, “is nothing extraordinary; I am twenty- 
seven years old, titled, and rich. But that her mistress, 
that woman with a voice like the roof-cats, should have 
brought her here in a boat at this time of day, is some- 
thing surprising, if not marvellous. Those women 
came to Savoie to sleep like marmots, expecting sunrise 
at mid-day, and here they are getting up at eight o’clock 
in the morning, and setting out in pursuit of me.” 

But before long the old maid and her quadragenary 
frankness struck him as only another scene in the artful 
and malicious play of life, — a low trick, a clumsy plot, 
a manoeuvre of priests and women. Was the duel an 
invention, simply intended to frighten him away? In- 
solent and irritating as flies, these narrow minds had 
succeeded in pricking his vanity, rousing his pride, and 
exciting his curiosity. Determined not to be their 
dupe, nor to be thought a coward, and amused, it may 
be, at the little drama, he went to the Assembly rooms 
that evening. As he stood erect and tranquil, with his 
elbow on the marble chimney-piece of the principal 
salon, he examined the faces of those who passed him, 
and challenged, as it were, the whole company. Like 
a bull-dog sure of his own strength, he awaited the fight 
without barking. 

Toward the end of the evening he walked up and 
down the card-room, casting an occasional glance at 
the 3*oung men who were playing in the billiard-room. 
After a while he heard one of the latter mention his name. 
Though their voices were low, Raphael easily perceived 
he was the theme of an argument, and finally of a 
wager. “ Will j’ou bet? ” “ Ob, yes, we can drive him 


294 


The Magic Skin. 


away.” At this moment, when Valentin, curious to 
know the exact meaning of the wager, entered the 
billiard-room, a tall, young man with an agreeable face 
came up to him. 

“ Monsieur,” he said in a quiet tone, “ I am com- 
missioned to tell you something which you appear to 
ignore. Your face and person are not agreeable to the 
society of this place, and to me in particular. You are 
too polite not to sacrifice 3"Ourself for the general good, 
and I request j’ou not to appear here again.” 

“ Monsieur, this joke, which was perpetrated many 
times under the Empire in various garrisons, is now 
extremely ill-bred,” said Raphael, coldly. 

“ I am not joking,” replied the young man. “ I 
repeat what I said ; your health will suffer seriously' if 
you stay here an^^ longer. The heat, the lights, the 
atmosphere of these rooms will develop your malady.” 

“ Where did you study medicine? ” asked Raphael. 

“ Monsieur, I graduated from Lepage’s pistol-gallery 
in Paris, and took my degree of doctor from Cerizier, 
prince of foils.” 

“ You have still another grade to win,” replied Val- 
entin; “stud}" the code of civility and 3’ou will be a 
perfect gentleman.'’ 

At these words, all the young men present crowded 
round them, silent and smiling. The card-players left 
their game and listened to the quarrel with satisfaction. 
Alone, in the midst of this hostile company, Raphael tried 
to maintain his self-possession, and to give no ground 
of offence ; but his antagonist having uttered a sarcasm 
the insolence of which was wrapped in peculiarl}" inci- 
sive and witty language, he answered deliberate!}’ : — 


The Magic Skin, 


295 


“ Monsieur, it is not permissible in these da3’s to box 
a man’s ears, and I do not know with what words to 
brand 3’our cowardly conduct.” 

“Enough! enough! you can explain to-morrow,” 
cried several 3^oung men, flinging themselves between 
the antagonists. 

Raphael left the room, apparently the aggressor, 
having agreed on a meeting the following day, in a 
small meadow near the chateau de Bordeau and not 
far from the main road to L3'ons, along which the 
conqueror could readily escape. 

The next morning b3’' eight o’clock Raphael’s adver- 
sar3^, the two seconds, and a surgeon arrived on the 
ground. 

“We shall do very well here, — splendid weather for 
a duel,” cried the young man ga3’l3’, looking at the blue 
sk3’, the water of the lake, and the mountains, without 
a thought of death. “If I can wing him, I shall put 
him to bed for a month ; hey, doctor ? ” 

“At the very least,” replied the surgeon. “But 
don’t twist that willow-branch ; you will tire your hand 
and not fire steady ; in that case you might kill your 
man instead of wounding him.” 

The roll of a carriage was heard. 

“ Here he comes,” said the seconds, who soon made 
out on the high road a travelling-carriage drawn by 
four horses managed by two postilions. 

“ What an odd fellow,” cried Valentin’s adversary ; 
“ he comes in fine style to be killed.” 

A duel is like a game ; the slightest incident aflects 
the mind of players who are strongly interested in 
the success of a throw ; and the 3^oung man certainl3' 


296 


The Magic Skin, 


awaited the approach of the carriage with some uneasi- 
ness. Old Jonathas first emerged clumsilj", and then 
turned to assist Raphael. He supported him in his 
feeble arms with all the minute care a lover bestows on 
his mistress. Both disappeared in the shrubbery which 
separated the road from the meadow, and came in sight 
after some delay ; they were seen to be walking slowly. 
The four spectators of this strange scene were con- 
scious of some emotion when they saw Raphael leaning 
heavily on the servant’s arm. Pale and unstrung, he 
walked like a gouty man, and did not utter a word. 
They seemed like a pair of broken-down old men, — 
one broken by time, the other by thought ; the age of 
the first was written on his white hairs, but the younger 
man was no longer of any age. 

“ Monsieur, I have not slept all night,” said Raphael 
to his adversar3\ 

The ic}' tone and terrible glance which accompanied 
the words made the real aggressor tremble ; he was 
conscious of being the one to blame, and he felt a secret 
shame at his conduct. In Raphael’s whole attitude, 
voice, and gesture, there was something unnatural. 
The marquis paused ; every one was silent ; the atten- 
tion and the uneasiness of all present was at its 
height. 

“There is still time,” said Valentin slowly, “to 
make me some slight apology ; give it to me, mon- 
sieur ; if not you must die. You are reckoning on j’our 
prowess ; you do not shrink from a combat in which, 
as you believe, all the advantage lies on your side. 
Well, I am generous; I warn 3"ou of my superiority. 
I possess a terrible power. I can neutralize your 


The Magic Skin. 


297 


science, bewilder your eyes, make your hands tremble 
and your heart beat by a mere wish. I do not wish to 
exercise this power, it costs me too dear. If I use it, 
3’ou will not be the only one to die. Should you refuse 
to make me this apology, j^our ball will glance aside in 
the water of that cascade in spite of 3’our duelling-prac- 
tice, and mine will go straight to your heart, though I 
shall take no aim.’’ 

As he said these words the marquis kept the intoler- 
able brightness of his eye steadil}' fixed on his adver- 
sar}’ ; he straightened himself up, and now showed an 
impassive face, like that of a dangerous madman. 

Silence him,” said the 3"Oung man to his second, 
“ his voice wrings my very entrails.” 

“ Monsieur, be silent. Your remarks are useless,” 
cried the surgeon and the second together. 

“ Gentlemen, I fulfil a duty. Has this young man 
an3^ affairs to settle ? ” 

“ Enough, enough ! ” 

The marquis stood motionless, without taking his eye 
for one instant from his adversar3', who, apparently 
under the influence of some magnetic power, seemed 
like a bird before a snake. Compelled to endure that 
homicidal glance, he tried to avoid it, but was unable 
to do so. 

“ Give me some water, I am thirst3’,” he said to his 
second. 

‘ ‘ Are you nervous ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ the burning eye of that man 
casts a spell upon me.” 

“ Will you apologize? ” 

“It is too late.” 


298 


The Magic Skin, 


The adversaries were placed at fifteen paces from 
each other. Each took his pistol ; according to the 
rules of the ceremon}", each was to fire two shots when 
and how he pleased after the seconds had given the 
signal. 

“What are you doing, Charles?” cried the young 
man who was acting as second to Raphael’s antagonist. 
“ You are putting in the ball before the powder.” 

“I am a dead man,” he answered; “you have put 
me with my face to the sun.” 

“ The sun is behind 3^ou,” said Valentin, in a solemn 
voice, slowl}’ loading his pistol and paying no attention 
to the fact that the signal was already" given, nor to the 
care with which his adversary adjusted his aim. 

There was something terrifying about this easy as- 
surance, which afiected even the two postilions who had 
approached the scene with cruel curiosity. Raphael, 
either playing with his power or wishing to test it, was 
talking to Jonathas at the moment when his adversary 
fired. The ball broke a small branch of a willow-tree 
and ricochetted upon the water. Firing at random, 
Raphael shot his antagonist through the heart. Then, 
without paying the slightest attention to the j^oung man, 
he pulled out the Magic Skin to see how much of life 
that other human life had cost him. The talisman was 
now no larger than a small oak-leaf. 

“ Well,” he cried to the postilions, “what are 3"ou 
gazing at ? To your saddles — let us start ! ” 

Arriving the same night in France, he started imme- 
diately for the Baths of the Mont Dore. During the 
journey there came into his mind one of those sudden 


The Magic Skin, 


299 


thoughts which fall like a ray of light across the thick 
shadows of a darksome valley, — a melancholy light, an 
implacable wisdom, which illumines past events, unveils 
to us our faults, and leaves us unforgiven before the 
tribunal of our own souls. He thought all at once how 
the possession of power, no matter how mighty that 
power may be, does not bring with it the knowledge of 
how to use it. The sceptre is a plaything to a child, 
an axe to Richelieu, to Napoleon the lever that over- 
turned the world. Power leaves us such as we are ; it 
exalts none but the exalted. Raphael might have done 
all things ; he had done nothing. 

At the Baths of the Mont Dore he encountered the 
same society, which again shrank away from him with 
the haste of an animal fleeing from the carcass of one 
of its kind which it scents from afar. The hatred was 
reciprocal. The last incident in his career had given 
him an abiding aversion for society. His flrst care was 
therefore to find himself a spot of refuge away from the 
surroundings of the Baths. He instinctively felt the 
need of drawing near to nature, to the true emotions of 
that vegetative life at which we complacently play for 
awhile as we wander in the fields. The day after his 
arrival, he ascended, not without diflSculty, the Pic de 
Sancy, visited the upland valleys, sought out the aerial 
scener}*, the forgotten lakes, the rustic cottages of the 
Dore mountains, whose wild and rugged charm is be- 
ginning to attract the pencils of our artists. Some- 
times he found exquisite bits of landscape, full of grace 
and freshness, which contrasted vividly with the danger- 
ous aspect of the desolate mountains. Soon he came 
upon a spot, over a mile from the village, where nature 


800 


The Magic Skin. 


seemed to have delighted in hiding her treasures. After 
he had carefully examined this unspoiled and picturesque 
retreat, he resolved to live there. Existence, he thought, 
must be tranquil, spontaneous, fruitful, like the life of 
plants, in such a nook. 

Imagine a reversed cone — a granite cone — deeply 
hollowed out, a sort of basin with its edges chipped 
into irregular waving lines ; on the one side are flat 
tables of rock without vegetation, smooth and bluish in 
tint, on which the sun-rays glisten as on a mirror ; on 
the other, high cliffs split by Assures, broken into by 
ravines, crowned with stunted trees gnarled by the 
wind, from the sides of w'hich hang bowlders whose fall 
is slowly being compassed by the freshets. Here and 
there were shady cool recesses, from which the chest- 
nut-trees rose high as cedars, or grottos, burrowing in 
the yellow earth, opened their deep dark mouths fringed 
with brier and flowering shrubs, and stretched forth long 
tongues of grass. At the bottom of this inverted cup, 
possibly the crater of an extinct volcano, was a pool, 
whose pure clear water had the brilliancy of a diamond. 
Around this basin, held in by granite rocks and bor- 
dered with willows, ash-trees, water-flags and many 
other aromatic plants which were then in flower, lay a 
strip of greensward, as smooth and velvety as an Eng- 
lish lawn. The soft fine grass was irrigated by tiny 
streamlets filtering among the rocks, and nourished 
by vegetable deposits washed down from the mountain 
heights to the valleys incessantly by rains. The pool, 
irregularly dented, or scalloped round its edges like the 
bottom of a dress, was about three acres in extent. 
According as the cliffs approached the water or receded 


The Magic Skin, 


301 


from it, the intervening meadow land was an acre, or 
even two acres in width, though in some places barely 
enough ground was left for the passage of cows. 

At a certain height on the mountain sides vegetation 
ceased. The granite rocks assumed to the eye fantas- 
tic shapes, taking on those vaporous tints which lend 
to the tops of mountains a likeness to the clouds of the 
sky, with which indeed they seemed to blend. These 
bare and barren clilfs, these wild and sterile images of 
desolation, these land-slips to be dreaded, these shapes 
so weird that one rock is named the “ Capuchin,” from 
likeness to a monk, formed a strong contrast to the 
soft beauty of the valley. Here and there the pointed 
peaks, the beetling rocks, the caverns far up the heights, 
were illuminated bj^ the course of the sun, or by the ca- 
prices of the atmosphere, with tints of gold or shades 
of purple changing into rosy red and dying into grays. 
The aspect of the mountains changed continuall}" with 
the changing lights and colors, like the iridescent reflec- 
tions on a pigeon’s neck. Often between two cliffs of 
rock, so near together that you might have thought 
them cleft by the axe of a giant, a lovely ra}’ of sun- 
light penetrated at the rising or the setting of the sun, 
until it reached the depths of the smiling valley where 
the waters of the pool were shining, like the line of 
golden light from the shutter of a Spanish bedroom 
closed for the siesta. When the sun lay directly over 
the extinct crater, filled with water by some antedi- 
luvian cataclysm, the flinty basin grew hot, the old 
volcano glowed, the quickening warmth germinated the 
seeds, budded the vegetation, colored the flowers, and 
ripened the fruit of this tiny lost corner of the earth. 


302 


The Magic Skin. 


As Raphael approached, he noticed a number of cows 
feeding in the meadow ; after taking a few steps toward 
the pool he saw, at a spot where the level land was 
widest, a humble little house built of granite and roofed 
with wood. This roof was covered, in true harmony 
with the situation, by mosses, lichens, ivies, and a few 
flowers of ancient growth. A slender smoke, of which 
the birds were no longer afraid, rose from the ruined 
chimney. At the door was a wide bench placed be- 
tween two hone3'suckles in full bloom and fragrance. 
The walls of the cottage could scarcelj" be seen beneath 
the branches of these vines and the garlands of roses 
and jessamine which crossed and covered them at their 
own sweet will. Indifferent to these rural adornments, 
the inhabitants of the house had taken no pains to train 
them, allowing nature to follow her virgin and tricksome 
grace. Bab^^-clothes were drying on a currant-bush. 
A cat was curled up on a machine for stripping hemp, 
beneath which, a copper caldron, recently scoured, was 
lying beside a pile of potato-parings. Raphael noticed 
an the other side of the house an inclosure of dry brush- 
wood, intended no doubt to keep chickens from scratch- 
ing among the fruits and vegetables. 

It seemed as though the world ended here. The 
house was like certain bird’s-nests ingeniously" built in 
the cleft of a rock, specimens of science and careless- 
ness combined. It bespoke a simple, honest nature, 
a true rusticity’, that was poetical because it flourished 
ten thousand miles away from our conventional poetry, 
because it had no analogy wdth ideas, but expressed 
itself alone — a simple triumph of chance. 

As Raphael stood there, the sun was casting its rays 


The Magic Skin, 


303 


from right to left, bringing out the colors of the vege- 
tation, and setting in full relief, with the spell of its 
splendor and the appositions of shade, the gray and 
yellow rocks, the varying greens of the foliage, the 
blue and red and white masses of flowers, the climb- 
ing plants with their hanging bell-blooms, the chang- 
ing tints of the velvet mosses, the purple clusters of 
the heather, but above all, the sheet of clear water 
which reflected the granite heights, the trees, the cot- 
tage, and the sky. In that delightful picture all things 
had their own lustre, from the mica of the rocks to the 
tuft of j^ellow mone3’-wort hiding in the soft half-light. 
All was harmonious to the eye, — the brindled cow with 
polished hide, the frail aquatic blossoms bending like 
fringes above the water in little nooks where insects, 
robed in emerald or azure, hummed, and roots of trees 
like strands of hair stretched out and lost themselves 
among the shallows. The warm odors of the water, 
the flowers, and the grottos which perfumed this soli- 
tar}^ retreat gave Raphael a sensation that was almost 
enjoyment, — a divine enjoyment of the soul. 

The majestic silence which reigned in this embowered 
spot, forgotten perhaps on the tax-lists, was suddenly 
interrupted by the barking of two dogs. The cows 
turned their heads toward the entrance to the valley, 
showing Raphael their moist muzzles, and then after 
gazing at him stupidly, they began to feed again. 
Hanging to the rocks as if by magic, a goat and her 
kid were capering in mid-air ; presently they came and 
stood on a granite shelf near to Valentin’s head, as if 
they meant to question him. The yelping of the dogs 
brought out a fat child, who stood stock-still with his 


304 


The Magic Skin, 

mouth open ; then came a white-haired old man of 
medium height. These human beings were in keep- 
ing with the scenery, the atmosphere, the verdure, and 
the house. Health superabounded in the midst of 
this exuberant nature ; old age and infancy were 
equally sound and wholesome ; there was, in fact, in 
all these types of existence a primordial ease, a routine 
happiness which gave the lie to our dull philosophical 
homilies. 

The old man would have made an invaluable model 
for the virile brush of Schnetz, with his brown face 
covered by countless wrinkles that seemed as though 
they might be rough to the touch, a straight nose, high 
cheek-bones veined with red like an old vine-leaf, a 
bony frame with every characteristic of vigor even 
where vigor had ceased to be, and his calloused hands, 
horny though he no longer worked with them, covered 
by thin white hairs. His whole bearing was that of a 
free man, and gave the impression that in Italy he 
might at some time have been a brigand out of love for 
his precious liberty. The child, a true little mountain- 
eer, had a pair of black eyes that could look at the 
sun without winking, a swarthy skin, and brown hair 
matted and tangled. He was nimble and resolute on 
his feet, as natural in his movements as a bird, ill- 
clothed and ragged, the white, fresh skin of childhood 
showing through the rents in his garments. The child 
and the old man both stood still in silence, moved by 
one and the same feeling, their faces expressing a per- 
fect accord of idleness in their lives. The old man 
adopted the games of the child, and the child the 
humors of the old man, by a sort of compact between 


The Magic Skin. 


305 


their mutual weaknesses, — between a vigor near its 
end, and a force about to unfold itself. 

Presentl}" a woman, thirty years of age, came out on 
the sill of the open door, knitting as she walked. She 
was an Auvergnate, high-colored, jovial, frank, with white 
teeth, — Auvergne in face, Auvergne in shape, headdress 
and costume Auvergne, with the plump bosom of Au- 
vergne, and above all its speech. She was a complete 
idealization of the country, its laborious habits, its igno- 
rance, thrift, and cordiality — they were all in her. 

She saluted Raphael, and they entered into conver- 
sation ; the dogs quieted down, the old man seated 
himself on a bench in the sun, and the child followed 
his mother wherever she went, silent, but attentive and 
still examining the stranger. 

“ Are you not afraid to live here, my good woman?” 

“And what should make us afraid, monsieur? We 
bar the entrance to our valley, and so who can get in? 
Oh, no, we ’ve no fear. Besides,” she added, inviting 
the marquis to step into the living-room of the house, 
“ what could robbers find to steal here? ” 

She pointed to the smoke-stained walls on which 
were hung, as sole ornament, those ' colored images in 
blue, red, and green, which represent the “ Death of 
Credit,” the “ Passion of our Lord,” and the “ Grena- 
diers of the Imperial Guard.” Here and there at 
intervals about the room stood an old four-post bed- 
stead, a table with twisted legs, a few stools, a knead- 
ing-trough, a pot of lard hanging from the rafters, some 
salt in a box, and a stove ; on the chimney-piece were 
several yellow plaster-figures highly colored. Coming 
out of the house, Raphael saw a man among the rocks 
20 


306 


The Magic Skin, 


with a hoe in his hand, leaning forward inquisitively, 
and watching the house. 

“ Monsieur, that ’s my man,” said the Auvergnate, 
with the smile peculiar to peasants women ; “he is 
digging up there.” 

“ Is that old man your father?” 

“ Beg pardon, but he is my man’s grandfather. 
Such as you see him he is one hundred and two 3'ears 
old. Hey, well! would 3^ou think it, he walked our 
little fellow to Clermont the other day. He ’s been a 
strong man, he. Now he can’t do much but sleep and 
eat and drink. But he’s alwa3^s playing with the 
little one. Sometimes the rogue wants him to go up 
the heights, and he goes, too.” 

Raphael resolved to live with that old man and child ; 
to breathe the same atmosphere, eat their bread, drink 
their water, sleep with their sleep, and get their blood 
into his veins. Fantastic notion of a djdng man ! To 
become a limpet on those rocks, to preserve his shell 
a few days longer bj’ cheating death, seemed to him 
the essence of individual morality", the true formula of 
human existence, the beau-ideal of life, the onl}^ life, 
the true life. Into his heart there came one sole absorb- 
ing selfishness which blotted out the universe. To him 
there was no universe ; the universe was he, himself. 
To a sick man the world begins at his pillow and ends 
at the foot of his bed. 

Who has not, at some period of his life, watched the 
goings and comings of an ant, slipped a straw into the 
only orifice bj^ which a slug can breathe, studied the 
caprices of a dragon-fiy, admired the thousand little 
veins colored like the rose window of a cathedral, which 


The Magic Skin, 


307 


detach themselves from the reddish ground of a young 
oak-leaf? Who has never seen with delight the effect 
of sun and rain upon a roof of brown tiles, or watched 
the glitter of the dew-drops, the petals of the flowers, 
and the varied shapes of their calyces ? Who has never 
plunged into sweet material reveries, indolent 3’et busy, 
without object, but leading, nevertheless, to a thought? 
In short, who has not, at some time, lived the life of 
childhood, the life of idleness, the life of the savage, 
without his toils ? Thus lived Raphael for several days ; 
without cares, without wishes ; feeling a renewed life, an 
extraordinary* well-being, which calmed his fears, and 
abated his sufferings. He scaled the heights and sat on 
a peak from which his eyes could take in a landscape 
of immense extent. There he passed whole days like a 
plant in the sun, like a hare in her form. At other 
times he made himself familiar with the phenomena of 
vegetation, with the changefulness of the skies ; he 
watched the evolution of all things on the earth, in the 
waters, in the atmosphere. 

He tried to associate himself with the inward move- 
ment of the nature about him, to identify himself so 
completely with its passive obedience as to come under 
the despotic and preservative law which governs mere 
instinctive existences. He desired to have charge of 
himself no longer. Like criminals in the olden time 
who, when pursued by justice, were saved if they could 
reach the shadow of an altar, he strove to enter the 
sanctuary of this still life. He succeeded in becoming 
an integral part of the nature about him; he shared 
the inclemency^ of the weather, lived in the hollow clefts 
of the rocks, learned the habits and ways of the plants, 


308 


The Magic Skin, 


studied the system of the waters, knew their rise and 
fall, and made acquaintance with the animals ; in short, 
he became so completely one with this inanimate earth 
that he had, in a measure, seized its heart and pene- 
trated its secrets. To his mind, the infinite number of 
forms in all the kingdoms, animal, vegetable, and min- 
eral, were the developments of one substance, the com- 
binations of one movement, the vast breathings of a vast 
being, acting, growing, moving, thinking, with whom he 
wished to grow and move and think and act. With fan- 
tastic insistence he blended his life with the life of those 
rocks and became as it were imbedded in them. 

Thanks to this mysterious illuminism, working a fan- 
cied convalescence, like the beneficent delirium granted 
by nature to serve as a respite from suffering, Raphael 
enjoyed the pleasure of a second childhood during the 
first days of his sojourn in this smiling valley. He 
went about busy with a thousand nothings, beginning 
many things and finishing none ; forgetting on the 
morrow the plans of the night before. He was happy ; 
he believed himself saved. One morning he happened 
to stay late in bed, plunged in one of those sweet 
reveries between waking and sleeping which lend to 
reality the appearances of fancy, and give to chimeras 
the relief of existence, when suddenly, without at first 
knowing whether or not it was the continuation of his 
dream, he heard a bulletin of his health given by the 
woman of the house to Jonathas, who came each morn- 
ing to inquire for him. The Auvergnate, supposing no 
doubt that Raphael was still asleep, took no pains to 
lower the tones of her mountain voice. 

“ He ’s neither better nor worse,” she was saying. 


The Magic Skin, 


309 


“ He has coughed all this night fit to tear him to bits. 
He coughs and spits, the dear gentleman, till it makes 
my heart ache. My man and I, we keep wondering 
where he gets the strength to cough like that. What a 
cursed disease it is ! I ’m afraid every morning that I 
shall find him dead in his bed. He ’s as white as a wax 
Jesus. Goodness ! I see him sometimes when he gets 
out of bed, — hey ! his poor body is as lean as a rake. 
But it don’t seem to matter to him ; he scrambles about 
the rocks and spends his strength just as if he had it to 
sell. He has got a deal of courage, and he never com- 
plains. But as true as you ’re there, he had better be 
underground than afoot, for he suffers the torments of 
hell. Not that I desire it, monsieur; no, it’s against 
our interests ; but I don’t think of them. Ah, good 
God ! ” she cried, “it is only Parisians who die such a 
dog’s death. How did he get such a disease ? Poor 
young man ! He fancies he is going to get well ; but 
that fever, don’t you see, is just eating him up ; it will 
be the death of him, though he does n’t seem to see it ; 
he does n’t see anything. Don’t you weep for him. 
Monsieur Jonathas ; you must think how much happier 
he ’ll be not to suffer any more. Say a no vena for him. 
I ’ve seen some fine cures done by novenas ; and I ’ll 
pay a wax-taper to save the poor creature — so good 
and gentle ; why, he ’s like a paschal lamb — ” 

Raphael’s voice had become too feeble to make itself 
heard, and he was forced to submit to this intolerable 
chatter. Presently, however, his irritation drove him 
out of bed and to the sill of his door. 

“ Old wretch ! ” he said to Jonathas, “ are you deter- 
mined to kill me ? ” 


310 


The Magic Skin. 


The woman thought she saw a spectre, and fled. 

“ I forbid you,” continued Raphael, “ to take the 
slightest interest in my health.” 

“Yes, Monsieur le marquis,” said the old man, 
wiping his eyes. 

“ And you will do well, in future, not to come here 
without my orders.” 

Jonathas meant to obey ; but before he left the room 
he cast a sorrowful and pitying look upon his master, 
— a look in which Raphael read his death-warrant. 
Brought suddenly back to a true sense of his condi- 
tion, Valentin sat down at the threshold of the door, 
crossed his arms upon his breast, and bowed his head. 
Jonathas, alarmed, came up to him. 

“ Monsieur? ” 

“ Go away ! go away ! ” cried the sick man. 

During the morning of the following day Raphael, 
having climbed a cliff, was sitting in a mossy ravine 
from which he could see the narrow road which led from 
the Baths to the entrance of the valley. There he per- 
ceived Jonathas, again talking with the woman. His 
fears interpreted the despairing gestures and the omi- 
nous shaking of their heads. Seized with horror, he fled 
to the highest summit of the mountains and remained 
there till evening, without being able to shake off the 
horrible thoughts roused in his mind by the pity of 
which he now felt himself the object. Suddenly the 
woman herself rose before him, like a shadow among 
the shadows of the twilight ; with poetic fancy, he saw 
in the black and white stripes of her petticoat a vague 
resemblance to the dried ribs of a spectre. 

“The dew is falling, my dear monsieur,” she said. 


The Magic Shin, 


311 


“ If you stay here you won’t get a bit better than a 
rotten fruit. You must come in. It is n’t healthy to 
breathe the night-damp, especially when you have n’t 
eaten anything since morning.” 

“ In God’s name,” he cried, “ I order you, old 
witch, to let me live as I please, or I leave your 
place. It is enough to have you dig my grave every 
morning ; at least you shall not pry into it at night.” 

“ Your grave, monsieur ! dig 3’our grave ! Why, I ’d 
like to see you as lively as the grandfather down there, 
and not in 3’our grave. We ’ll all get there soon enough 
— into our graves.” 

“ Silence ! ” said Raphael. 

“ Take my arm, monsieur.” 

“ No.” 

The feeling in the hearts of others that men can least 
bear is pity, above all when they deserve it. Hatred is 
a tonic ; it makes a man live, it inspires vengeance ; 
but pity kills, it weakens our weakness. It is contempt 
lurking in tenderness, or tenderness that is half-insult- 
ing. Raphael saw the pity of superiority in the eyes of 
the hale old man ; in those of the child the pity of 
curiosity ; in the woman a meddlesome pity ; in the 
husband the pity of self-interest ; but under whatever 
guise it appeared to him, it was big with Defith. To a 
poet all things are a poem, be they joyous or terrible, 
according to the images they imprint upon his mind ; 
his soul rejects the softer tints and chooses those that 
are vivid and clear-cut. This pity induced in Raphael’s 
mind a ghastly poem of sadness and mourning. In 
drawing nigh to nature he had not considered the 
frankness of natural sentiments. When he thought 


312 


The Magic Skin, 


himself alone under a tree struggling with the horrible 
cough which left him shattered and almost lifeless, he 
saw the bright moist eyes of the little boy, perched like 
a sentrj' on a grassy mound, and watching him with 
that childish curiosity in which there is quite as much 
of raillery and scorn as of interest mingled with sheer 
indifference. That awful sentence of the Trappists, 
“ Brother, thou must die ! ” seemed written in the eyes 
of all those among whom Raphael now lived. He 
scarcely knew what he dreaded most, their simple 
words or their silence ; both exasperated him. 

One morning he saw two men dressed in black wan- 
dering about within sight of his retreat, apparently 
observing him furtively ; then, pretending to be taking 
a walk, they approached and asked him a few common- 
place questions, to which he replied briefly. He recog- 
nized the doctor and the curate belonging to the Baths, 
sent no doubt by Jonathas, by agreement with his land- 
lady, or attracted, he thought, by the scent of a coming 
death. A vision of his own funeral passed before his 
eyes ; he heard the chanting of the priests ; he counted 
the wax-tapers ; he saw through crape the beauties of 
surrounding nature, — that rich nature which so lately 
he believed to have given him life. All that once 
seemed to promise him a long life now prophesied his 
speedy end. He could bear it no longer. The next 
morning he started for Paris, followed by the melan- 
choly, kindly, and pitying wishes of the inhabitants 
of the valley. 

After travelling all night he opened his eyes in one of 
the smiling valleys of the Bourbonnais, whose scenery 
whirled around him and past him, swept onward like 


The Magic Skin. 


313 


the nebulous images of a dream. Nature spread her- 
self before his eyes with cruel coquetry. Sometimes 
the AUier rolled its shining liquid ribbon far into the 
distance of a fertile perspective ; then the hamlets 
modestly nestling in a gorge of yellow cliffs showed the 
spires of their steeples. Here and there the windmills 
of a little valley broke the monotony of the vineyards, 
and on all sides gay chateaux, villages clinging to the 
hillsides, roads bordered with poplars could be seen, 
while the Loire with its glistening waters flowed between 
golden sands. Charms without end ! Nature, living, 
vigorous as a child, overflowing with love and the spring- 
time sap of the month of June, attracted with awful 
power the eyes of the dying man. He lowered the 
blinds of the carriage window and tried to sleep. 

Toward evening, after passing Cosne, he was 
awakened by joyous music, and found himself in the 
middle of a village fete. The post-house was in the 
square. While the postilions were changing horses he 
watched the dances of the happy crowd. The young 
girls decked with flowers were pretty and enticing, the 
swains animated, the old folks ruddy and jovial with 
their wine. Children were romping about ; old women 
talked and laughed; everything had a voice; gayety 
enlivened even the costumes and the tables set out in 
the street. The village square with its church pre- 
sented a picture of simple happiness ; the roofs, the 
windows, even the doors of the houses wore a festal 
air. Kaphael, like all dying persons, was sensitive to 
noise, and he could not restrain an angry exclamation, 
nor the wish to silence those violins, to put an end to 
the tumult and stop the gay dances of the annoying 


814 


The Magic Skin, 


festival. He got wearily back into his carriage. Glanc- 
ing presentl}'^ at the square he saw the peasantry dis- 
persing ; the benches were deserted, the gayet}^ at an 
end. On the scaffolding of the orchestra a blind fiddler 
was still playing a squeaking tune on his violin. That 
music without dancers, that solitar}'^ old man with a 
surly face, clothed in rags, his hair matted, half-hidden 
in the shadow of a linden, were the fantastic images 
of Raphael’s wish. The rain fell in torrents from one 
of those electric clouds so frequent in the month of 
June, which begin and end with equal suddenness. It 
was so natural a circumstance that Raphael, after no- 
ticing the white clouds in the heavens as they whirled 
away in the gusts of wind, never even looked at the 
Magic Skin. He settled himself in the carriage and 
was soon rolling toward Paris. 

On the morrow he was once more at home, in his 
own home, seated by the chimney, near an immense 
fire, for he was cold. Jonathas brought him letters ; 
they were all from Pauline. He opened the first with- 
out eagerness, unfolding it as though it were a summons 
sent by a tax-gatherer. He read the first sentence, — 
“ Gone ! is it fiight, my Raphael? What! can no one 
tell me where you are? If I do not know it, who else 
can ? ” Without reading another word he coldly took 
up all the letters and threw them into the fire, watching 
with dull and lifeless eyes the play of the fiames as 
they licked up the perfumed paper, twisting and shriv- 
elling and devouring it. Fragments rolled down among 
the ashes, allowing him to read the beginning of sen- 
tences and words and thoughts that were only half 


The Magic Skin. 315 

consumed ; he even took pleasure in deciphering them, 
as though it were some mechanical game. 

“ Sitting at your door — waiting — capricious — I 
obey — Rivals — I, no ! — your own Pauline — love — 
no more ? — Though you leave me j’ou would never 
abandon me — Love eternal — To die ! — ” 

The words caused him a species of remorse ; he 
seized the tongs and caught a fragment of a letter 
from the flames. 

“I murmured,” she wrote, “but I have not com- 
plained, my Raphael. If 3’ou have left me, it is, no 
doubt, to spare me the burden of some grief. It may 
be that 3’ou will some day kill me, but 3’ou are too good 
to torture me. Never leave me thus again. I can 
face all trials if 3’ou are with me. The grief that }'ou 
ma}’ cause me will not be grief. I have more love in 
m}^ heart than I have ever shown j'ou. I can bear all 
things except to weep in solitude away from 3’ou, and 
not to know if you — ” 

Raphael put the blackened fragment on the chimne}"- 
piece ; then he flung it back into the fire. That paper 
was too vivid an image of his love and of his fatal 
life. 

“ Jonathas,” he said, “ go and fetch Monsieur 
Bianchon.” 

Horace came, and found Raphael in bed. 

“M3" friend, can you give me some gentle opiate 
which shall keep me always in a state of somnolence 
and yet do my health no harm ? ” 

“ Nothing is easier,” said the young physician ; “ but 
you must get up some hours in the day to eat yom 
meals- ” 


316 


The Magic Skin, 


“ Some hours ! ” said Raphael, interrupting him. 
“ No, no ; only one hour at most.” 

“ What are you aiming at? ” asked Bianchon. 

“Sleep is still life, you know,” answered the pa- 
tient. “Let no one in,” he added, speaking to Jona- 
thas while the doctor wrote a prescription, “not even 
your mistress.” 

“ Well, Monsieur Horace, what hope is there? ” asked 
the old servant the moment they were on the portico. 

“ He may live some time ; he may die to-night. The 
chances of life and death are very nearly balanced in 
him. I can’t understand it ! ” replied the young physi- 
cian, in a tone of discouragement. “ He needs amuse- 
ment. You must distract his mind.” 

“ Distract him ! monsieur, j’ou don’t know him. 
Why, the other day he killed a man without a word ! 
Nothing, I tell you, distracts him !” 

Raphael remained for several days in this condition 
of induced sleep. Thanks to the material power of 
opium over our immaterial being, this man of high and 
active imagination lowered himself to the level of those 
slothful animals who crouch in the depths of a forest 
and take the form of vegetable decay to seize their 
prey without seeking it. He denied himself even the 
light of heaven, — the windows were darkened. To- 
wards eight o’clock in the evening he rose from his bed 
to satisfy his hunger, but without any clear conscious- 
ness of existence, and then returned to it. The cold 
and barren hours brought him nothing more than con- 
fused images, vague apparitions, the flicker of dim 
lights on a black background. He was buried in utter 
silence, in a blind negation of motion and intellect. 


The Magic Skin. 317 

One evening he waked much later than usual and 
found his dinner not ready. He rang for Jonathas. 

“Leave my service/’ he said. “I have made you 
rich ; j^ou can be happy in 3'our old age, hut j'ou shall 
no longer trifle with m}^ life. Wretched man ! I am 
hungry. Where is m}- dinner? am I to wish for it? 
Answer.” 

Jonathas gave a smile of satisfaction, took a wax- 
taper, whose light glimmered in the deep obscurity of the 
vast apartments, and led his master, now a machine in 
his hands, to the door of the great gallery" which he 
abruptly threw open. Raphael, bathed in a sudden 
flood of light, stood still, amazed and dazzled by what 
he saw. The lustres were filled with candles, choicest 
flowers, artistically arranged, adorned a table that 
sparkled with silver and gold and glass and porcelain ; 
a regal repast fit to tempt the jaded appetites of a 
palace was there. He saw his friends and companions, 
and with them he saw beautiful women, elegantly 
dressed, their necks and shoulders bare, their ev^es 
brilliant, their heads bedecked with flowers, wearing the 
costumes of distant lands and other times. One wore 
the graceful jacket of an Irish girl ; another the alluring 
“basquina ” of the Andalusians. Diana of the chase, 
half-clothed, and Mademoiselle de La Valliere, modest 
3"et amorous, were present. All eyes sparkled with 
pleasure and delight. When Raphael’s dead face looked 
in upon them from the open door acclamations burst 
forth, glowing and vehement as the sudden blaze of the 
unexpected feast. For an instant the voices, the per- 
fumes, the lights, and the penetrating beauty of the 
women seized upon his senses and awakened him. 


318 


The Magic Skin, 


Delightful music came in a torrent of harmony from 
an adjoining room, and completed the strange vision. 
Kaphael felt the pressure of a soft hand, a woman’s 
hand, whose white and fragrant arms were raised to 
clasp him, — the hand of Aquilina. He comprehended 
then that the scene was not vague and fantastic like 
the fugitive visions of his distorted dreams ; uttering a 
dreadful cry, he shut the door violently and struck his 
old servant a blow on the face. 

“Monster, have 3’ou sworn m}^ death?” he cried. 
Then, still throbbing with the sense of the danger he 
had escaped, he gathered up his strength, and fled to his 
room, drank a deep draught of sleep and went to bed. 

“The devil!” cried old Jonathas, recovering him- 
self. “Monsieur Bianchon certainly told me to dis- 
tract him.” 

It was nearly midnight. B}" one of those physiolog- 
ical caprices which are the wonder and the despair of 
science, Raphael became resplendent in beauty during 
sleep. A bright color glowed on his pallid cheek. His 
noble brow, pure as a 3^oung girl’s, revealed his genius. 
Life was in flower, as it were, upon that tranquil, 
peaceful face. He was like a child sleeping under the 
care of a mother. His sleep was a good sleep ; a pure 
and equable breath came from the coral lips ; he smiled, 
entranced no doubt by some dream of a noble life. 
Was he an aged man, were his grandchildren pla3’ing 
at his knee and wishing him still longer life ? From his 
rustic bench in the sunshine, beneath the foliage, did 
he see, like the prophet from the mountain-top, in the 
far and blessed distance, the promised land? 

“ 1 have found thee I ” 


The Magic Skin. 


319 


The words, uttered in a silvery voice, dispersed the 
nebulous figures of his dream. By the light of a lamp 
he saw Pauline sitting on the bed, his Pauline, — yet a 
Pauline embellished by absence and by grief. Raphael 
remained speechless as he looked at the fair face, white 
as the petals of a water-lilj^, and now shaded by the 
falling of her long, black hair. Tears had left their 
traces on her cheeks and suffused her eyes, ready to 
fall at a word. Robed in white, with bowed head and 
scarcely touching the bed on which she rested, she was 
like an angel descending from heaven, a spirit, an 
apparition, which a breath might drive away. 

“ Ah ! I have forgotten all ; I do not blame thee,” 
she cried, as Raphael opened his ej’es. “ I have no 
voice except to tell thee that I am thine. Yes, my 
heart is love, love only. Ah ! angel of my life, how 
beautiful thou art ; never so beautiful as now. Thine 
ej^es devour me — But I have guessed all ; it was in 
search of health — ” 

“ Away, away ! go, leave me,” said Raphael at last, 
in a muffled voice. “ Go, I say. If you stay there I 
die. Would you see me die?” 

“ Die ! ” she repeated. “ Canst thou die without 
me ? Die ? but thou art young. Die ? but I love thee. 
Die ? ” she added in a guttural voice, taking his hands 
with a frenzied movement. 

Cold ! ” she said ; “ is it an illusion? ” 

Raphael drew from beneath his pillow the fatal skin, 
now shrunken to the dimensions of a vinca-leaf. He 
showed it to her. 

Pauline, dear image of my beautiful life,” he said, 

“ we must bid each other farewell.” 


320 


The Magic Skin. 

“ Farewell? she repeated in tones of amazement. 

“Yes, this talisman accomplishes my wishes, and rep- 
resents my life. See how little remains of it. If you 
look at me again, if I long for happiness with thee, I die.'’ 

The young girl thought him mad ; she took the talis- 
man and carried it to the lamp. By the flickering light 
which fell upon Raphael and also on the talisman, she 
examined attentively the face of the one, and the last 
morsel of the Magic Skin. As she stood there, beautiful 
with terror and with love, Raphael was no longer mas- 
ter of his thought : recollections of tender scenes, of the 
passion of his lost joys, triumphed in the soul that he 
had put to sleep, and roused it like a smouldering fire. 

“ Pauline, Pauline, come to me ! ” 

A terrible cry burst from her throat, her eyes dilated, 
her eyebrows, dragged by some untold anguish, drew 
apart with horror; she read in Raphael’s ej-es a pas- 
sionate desire, once her glory, but as it grew the Skin 
contracted in her hand and to her sight. Without an 
instant’s reflection she fled into the adjoining room and 
locked the door. 

“Pauline, Pauline!” cried the dying man, rushing 
after her. “I love thee! I adore thee! I will curse 
thee if thou dost not open ! I choose to die with thee ! ”, 

With unnatural strength, the last effort of vitalit}", he 
burst open the door and saw her writhing on an otto- 
man. Pauline, seeking vainly for death, was endeavoring 
to strangle herself with her shawl : — 

“ If I die, he lives ! ” she cried, struggling to tighten 
the knot. 

Her hair hung loose, her shoulders were bare, her 
clothing in disorder; in this wild struggle for death. 


The Magic Skin. 


321 


with tearful eyes and a flushed face and writhing in 
the anguish of her horrible despair she met the eyes 
of Raphael and augmented his delirium ; he darted 
towards her with the lightness of a bird of prey, tore 
the shawl away, and tried to clasp her in his arms. 
The dying creature sought for words to utter the desire 
that possessed him, but no sounds came except the 
strangling death-rattle in his throat, — each breath he 
drew, more hollow than the last, seeming to come from 
his very entrails. At the last moment, furious at his 
own weakness, he bit her in the breast. Jonathas, ter- 
rifled by the cries he heard, rushed in, and struggled to 
tear his mistress from the dead body to which she clung 
in a coiner of the room. 

‘‘What do you want?” she demanded. “He is 
mine. I have killed him. Did I not predict it?” 


EPILOGUE. 

“ And what became of Pauline? ” 

“ Pauline? Ah ! Do you sometimes sit of a pleasant 
winter evening beside your family hearth, given over to 
delightful memories of youth and love as you watch the 
lines of Are among the logs ? Here the glowing embers 
seem the red squares of a checker-board, there they 
shimmer softly like velvet; the blue flames run, and 
dart up, and play upon the surface of the live coal. A 
painter comes; he takes that flame; by some art, 
known only to himself, he draws amid those lambent 
tints of violet or crimson, a spiritual flgure of unspeak- 


3S22 


The Magic Skin, 


able delicacy, a fleeting vision that no chance or circum- 
stance recalls ; it is a woman, whose hair floats in the 
breeze, whose profile breathes forth blissful passion, — 
fire within fire ! she smiles, she dies away, you will see 
her no more. Farewell, flower of the Flame ; farewell, 
essence incomplete as yet, and not expected ; come too 
early or too late to be the diamond of our lives — ” 

“But Pauline?” 

“Ah, you do not see? I will try again. Make 
way ! make way ! She comes, queen of illusions, the 
woman who passes like a kiss, the woman vivid as the 
lightning, falling like the lightning in fire from heaven ; 
the being uncreated, all spirit, all love. She is clothed 
with a bod}^ of flame, or, is it that for her, and for an 
instant, flame is living? The lines of her form are of 
such purity that you know she comes from heaven. 
Does she not shine as the Shining Ones ? do you not 
hear the airy beat of her wings ? Buoyant as a bird, 
she alights beside you ; her solemn eyes entrance you, 
her soft yet compelling breath attracts your lips by magic 
force ; she flies, and draws you with her ; 3 ^ou touch 
the earth no longer. You tr^’ to lay 3 'our quivering hand, 
3 "our fascinated hand, upon that snowjr bodj^, to touch 
the golden hair, to kiss those sparkling eyea. A vapor 
intoxicates ,you, enchanting music charms you. You 
tremble in every nerve, you are all desire, all suffering. 
Oh, happiness without a name ! you have touched that 
woman’s lips — but lo ! a sharp pain wakens you. Ha ! 
you have struck your head against the angle of the bed- 
post, \*ou kissed the brown mahogan}", the cold gilding, 
a bit of iron, or that brass Cupid — ” 

“ But, monsieur, Pauline?” 


The Magic Skin, 


323 


“What, again? Listen. On a lovel}^ morning a 
young man leading by the hand a pretty woman em- 
barked at Tours on the ‘ Ville d’Angers.’ Standing 
thus united, they watched and admired, above the 
broad waters of the Loire, a white form issuing from 
the bosom of the mist, like an offspring of the water and 
the sun, or some effluence of the clouds and the air. 
Undine or sylph, the fluid creature floated in the atmos- 
phere, like a word sought in vain as it flits through the 
memory and will not let itself be caught ; she glided 
among the islands, and waved her head above the pop- 
lars ; then, rising to colossal height, each fold of her 
drapery became resplendent as the halo drawn by the 
sun around her face. She hovered thus above the ham- 
lets and about the hills, seeming to forbid the little 
steamer to pass before the chateau D’Ussy. You 
might have thought her the phantom of the Lady of the 
Loire seeking to protect her countrj- from invasion.” 

“Well, well; I think I understand Pauline; but 
Fedora, what of her?” 

“Oh, Fedora? you meet her every day. Last 
night she was at the Bouflbns ; to-night she will be 
at the opera. She is everywhere ; call her, if you like, 
Society.” 








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THE HIDDEN MASTEKPIECR 


I. 

On a cold morning in December, towards the close of 
the 3^ear 1612, a young man, whose clothing betraj’ed 
his poverty, was standing before the door of a house in 
the Rue des Grands-Augustins, in Paris. After walking 
to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover 
who fears to approach his mistress, however complying 
she may be, he ended by crossing the threshold and 
asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were within. At the 
affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping 
out one of the lower rooms the young man slowl}- 
mounted the stairway, stopping from time to time and 
hesitating, like a newly fledged courtier doubtful as to 
what sort of reception the king might grant him. 

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral 
ascent, he paused a moment before laying hold of a gro- 
tesque knocker which ornamented the door of the atelier 
where the famous painter of Henr^' IV. — neglected b}' 
Marie de Medicis for Rubens — was probablj" at work. 
The 3"oung man felt the strong sensation which vibrates in 
the soul of great artists when, in the flush of youth and 
of their ardor for art, they approach a man of genius 
or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are, 
as it were, primeval flowers bred of noble enthusiasms, 


328 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

which droop and fade from year to year, till joy is but 
a memory and glory a lie. Amid such fleeting emotions 
nothing so resembles love as the young passion of an 
artist who tastes the first delicious anguish of his des- 
tined fame and woe, — a passion daring yet timid, full 
of vague confidence and sure discouragement. Is there 
a man, slender in fortune, rich in his spring-time of gen- 
ius, whose heart has not beaten loudly as he approached 
a master of his art? If there be, that man will forever 
lack some heart-string, some touch, I know not what, of 
his brush, some fibre in his creations, some sentiment in 
his poetry. When braggarts, self-satisfied and in love 
with themselves, step early into the fame which belongs 
rightly to their future achievements, they are men of gen- 
ius only in the eyes of fools. If talent is to be meas- 
ured by youthful shyness, by that indefinable modesty 
which men born to glory lose in the practice of their art, 
as a pretty woman loses hers among the artifices of co- 
quetry, then this unknown young man might claim to be 
possessed of genuine merit. The habit of success lessens 
doubt ; and modesty, perhaps, is doubt. 

Worn down with poverty and discouragement, and 
dismayed at this moment by his own presumption, the 
young neophyte might not have dared to enter the pres- 
ence of the master to whom we owe our admirable portrait 
of Henry IV., if chance had not thrown an unexpected 
assistance in his way. An old man mounted the spiral 
stairway. The oddity of his dress, the magnificence of 
his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his deliberate step, 
led the youth to assume that this remarkable personage 
must be the patron, or at least the intimate friend, of the 
painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 329 

made room for the new-comer ; looking at him attentively 
and hoping to find either the frank good-nature of the 
artistic temperament, or the serviceable disposition of 
those who promote the arts. But on the contrary he 
fancied he saw something diabolical in the expression of 
the old man’s face, — something, 1 know not what, which 
has the quality of alluring the artistic mind. 

Imagine a bald head, the brow full and prominent 
and falling with deep projection over a little flattened 
nose turned up at the end like the noses of Rabelais and 
Socrates ; a laughing, wrinkled mouth ; a short chin 
boldly chiselled and garnished with a gray beard cut 
into a point ; sea-green eyes, faded perhaps by age, but 
whose pupils, contrasting with the pearl-white balls on 
which they floated, cast at times magnetic glances of 
anger or enthusiasm. The face in other respects was 
singularlj’ withered and worn by the weariness of old 
age, and still more, it would seem, by the action of 
thoughts which had undermined both soul and body. 
The eyes had lost their lashes, and the eyebrows were 
scarcely traced along the projecting arches where they 
belonged. Imagine such a head upon a lean and feeble 
bodj’, surround it with lace of dazzling whiteness worked 
in meshes like a fish-slice, festoon the black velvet 
doublet of the old man with a heavy gold chain, and you 
will have a faint idea of the exterior of this strange in- 
dividual, to whose appearance the dusky light of the 
landing lent fantastic coloring. You might have thought 
that a canvas of Rembrandt without its frame had walked 
silently up the stairway, bringing with it the dark atmos- 
phere which was the sign-manual of the great master. 
The old man cast a look upon the youth which was full 


330 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

of sagacity ; then he rapped three times upon the door, 
and said, when it was opened by a man in feeble health, 
apparently about forty years of age, “ Good-morning, 
maitre.” 

Porbus bowed respectfully, and made way for his 
guest, allowing the youth to pass in at the same time, 
under the impression that he came with the old man, 
and taking no further notice of him ; all the less perhaps 
because the neophyte stood still beneath the spell which 
holds a heaven-born painter as he sees for the first time 
an atelier filled with the materials and instruments of 
his art. Daylight came from a casement in the roof 
and fell, focussed as it were, upon a canvas which rested 
on an easel in the middle of the room, and which bore, as 
yet, only three or four chalk lines. The light thus con- 
centrated did not reach the dark angles of the vast atelier^ 
but a few wandering reflections gleamed through the rus- 
set shadows on the silvered breastplate of a horseman’s 
cuirass of the fourteenth centur}^ as it hung from the wall, 
or sent sharp lines of light upon the carved and polished 
cornice of a dresser which held specimens of rare pottery 
and porcelains, or touched with sparkling points the 
rough-grained texture of ancient gold-brocaded curtains, 
flung in broad folds about the room to serve the painter 
as models for his drapery. Anatomical casts in plaster, 
fragments and torsos of antique goddesses amorously 
polished by the kisses of centuries, jostled each other 
upon shelves and brackets. Innumerable sketches, stud- 
ies in the three crayons, in ink, and in red chalk covered 
the walls from floor to ceiling ; color-boxes, bottles of 
oil and turpentine, easels and stools upset or standing at 
right angles, left but a narrow pathway to the circle of 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 331 

light thrown from the window in the roof, which fell full 
on the pale face of Porbus and on the ivory skull of his 
singular visitor. 

The attention of the young man was taken exclu- 
sively by a picture destined to become famous after 
those days of tumult and revolution, and which even 
then was precious in the sight of certain opinionated 
individuals to whom we owe the preservation of the 
divine afflatus through the dark days when the life 
of art was in jeopardy. This noble picture represents 
the Mary of Egypt as she prepares to pay for her pas- 
sage by the ship. It is a masterpiece, painted for 
Marie de Medicis, and afterwards sold by her in the 
days of her distress. 

“I like your saint,” said the old man to Porbus, “and 
I will give you ten golden crowns over and above the 
queen’s offer ; but as to entering into competition with 
her — the devil!” 

“ You do like her, then ?” 

“As for that,” said the old man, “yes, and no. 
The good woman is well set-up, but — she is not living. 
You young men think 3"Ou have done all when you have 
drawn the form correctly, and put everything in place 
according to the laws of anatomy. You color the 
features with flesh-tones, — mixed beforehand on 3'our 
palette, — taking very good care to shade one side of 
the face darker than the other ; and because you draw 
now and then from a nude woman standing on a table, 
you think you can copy nature ; you fancy yourselves 
painters, and imagine that 3’ou have got at the secret 
of God’s creations ! Pr-r-r-r I — To be a great poet it 
is not enough to know the rules of syntax and write 


332 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 


faultless grammar. Look at your saint, Porbus. At 
first sight she is admirable ; but at the very next glance 
we perceive that she is glued to the canvas, and that 
we cannot walk round her. She is a silhouette with 
only one side, a semblance cut in outline, an image 
that can’t turn round nor change her position. I feel 
no air between this arm and the background of the 
picture ; space and depth are wanting. All is in good 
perspective ; the atmospheric gradations are carefully 
observed, and yet in spite of j^our conscientious labor 
I cannot believe that this beautiful body has the warm 
breath of life. If I put my hand on that firm, round 
throat I shall find it cold as marble. No, no, my friend, 
blood does not run beneath that ivory skin ; the purple 
tide of life does not swell those veins, nor stir those 
fibres which interlace like net-work below the translucent 
amber of the brow and breast. This part palpitates 
with life, but that other part is not living; life and 
death jostle each other in every detail. Here, you have 
a woman; there, a statue; here again, a dead body. 
Your creation is incomplete. You have breathed only 
a part of your soul into the well-beloved work. The 
torch of Prometheus went out in your hands over and 
over again ; there are several parts of your painting on 
which the celestial flame never shone.” 

“But why is it so, my dear master?” said Porbus 
humbly, while the young man could hardly restrain a 
strong desire to strike the critic. 

“ Ah ! that is the question,” said the little old man. 
“ You are floating between two systems, — between draw- 
ing and color, between the patient phlegm and honest 
stiffness of the old Dutch masters and the dazzling 


333 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 

warmth and abounding joy of the Italians. You have 
tried to follow, at one and the same time, Hans Holbein 
and Titian, Albrecht Diirer and Paul Veronese. Well, 
well ! it was a glorious ambition, but what is the result? 
You have . neither the stern attraction of severity nor 
the deceptive magic of the chiaroscuro. See ! at this 
place the rich, clear color of Titian has forced out the 
skeleton outline of Albrecht Diirer, as molten bronze 
might burst and overflow a slender mould. Here and 
there the outline has resisted the flood, and holds back 
the magnificent toiTent of Venetian color. Your fig- 
ure is neither perfectly well painted nor perfectly well 
drawn ; it bears throughout the signs of this unfortu- 
nate indecision. If you did not feel that the fire of 
your genius was hot enough to weld into one the rival 
methods, 3’ou ought to have chosen honestly the one or 
the other, and thus attained the unit}^ which conve3"s 
one aspect, at least, of life. As it is, you are true only 
on 3^our middle plane. Your outlines are false ; the3^ 
do not round upon themselves ; they suggest nothing 
behind them. There is truth here,” said the old man, 
pointing to the bosom of the saint ; “ and here,” show- 
ing the spot where the shoulder ended against the back- 
ground ; “but there,” he added, returning to the throat, 
“ it is all false. Do not inquire into the wh3^ and where- 
fore. I should fill you with despair.” 

The old man sat down on a stool and held his head 
in his hands for some minutes in silence. 

“Master,” said Porbus at length, “I studied that 
throat from the nude ; but, to our sorrow-, there are 
eflfects in nature which become false or impossible 
when placed on canvas.” 


334 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 

“The mission of art is not to copy nature, but to 
represent it. You are not an abject copyist, but a 
poet,” cried the old man, hastily interrupting Porbus 
with a despotic gesture. “ If it were not so, a sculptor 
could reach tlie height of his art by merely moulding a 
woman. Try to mould the hand of your mistress, and 
see what you will get, — ghastly articulations, without 
the slightest resemblance to her living hand ; you must 
have recourse to the chisel of a man who, without ser- 
vilely cop3'ing that hand, can give it movement and life. 
It is our mission to seize the mind, soul, countenance 
of things and beings. Effects ! effects ! what are they ? 
the mere accidents of the life, and not the life itself. 
A hand, — since I have taken that as an example, — a 
hand is not merely a part of the body, it is far more ; 
it expresses and carries on a thought which we must 
seize and render. Neither the painter nor the poet 
nor the sculptor should separate the effect from the 
cause, for they are indissolubly one. The true strug- 
gle of art lies there. Many a painter has triumphed 
through instinct without knowing this theorj^ of art as 
a theory. 

“Yes,” continued the old man vehemently, “you 
draw a woman, but you do not see her. That is not the 
way to force an entrance into the arcana of Nature. 
Your hand reproduces, without an action of your mind, 
the model you copied under a master. You do not 
search out the secrets of form, nor follow its windings 
and evolutions with enough love and perseverance. 
Beauty is solemn and severe, and cannot be attained in 
that way : we must wait and watch its times and sea- 
sons, and clasp and hold it firmly ere it 3ields to us. 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 335 

Form is a Proteus less easily captured, more skilful to 
double and escape, than the Proteus of fable ; it is only 
at the cost of struggle that we compel it to come forth 
in its true aspects. You young men are content with 
the first glimpse you get of it ; or, at any rate, with the 
second or the third. This is not the spirit of the great 
warriors of art, — invincible powers, not misled b}-^ will- 
o’-the-wisps, but advancing always until they force 
Nature to lie bare in her divine integrity. That was 
Raphael’s method,” said the old man, lifting his velvet 
cap in homage to the sovereign of art ; ‘ ‘ his superiority 
came from the inward essence which seems to break 
from the inner to the outer of his figures. Form with 
him was what it is with us, — a medium by which to 
communicate ideas, sensations, feelings ; in short, the 
infinite poesy of being. Everj’ figure is a world ; a por- 
trait, whose original stands forth like a sublime vision, 
colored with the rainbow tints of light, drawn by the 
monitions of an inward voice, laid bare by a divine 
finger which points to the past of its whole existence 
as the source of its given expression. You clothe your 
women with delicate skins and glorious draperies of hair, 
but where is the blood which begets the passion or the 
peace of their souls, and is the cause of what you call 
‘ effects ’ ? Your saint is a dark woman ; but this, my 
poor Porbus, belongs to a fair one. Your figures are 
pale, colored phantoms, which you present to our eyes ; 
and you call that painting! art! Because you make 
something which looks more like a woman than a house, 
yon think you have touched the goal ; proud of not be- 
ing obliged to write currus venmtus or pulcher homo on 
the frame of your picture, you think yourselves majestic 


336 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

artists like our great forefathers. Ha, ha! you have 
not got there 3’^et, little men ; you will use up many 
a crayon and spoil many a canvas before you reach that 
height. Undoubtedly a woman carries her head this 
way and her petticoats that wa}' ; her eyes soften and 
droop with just that look of resigned gentleness ; the 
throbbing shadow of the eyelashes falls exactl}^ thus 
upon her cheek. That is it, and — that is not it. What 
lacks ? A mere nothing ; but that mere nothing is all. 
You have given the shadow of life, but j’ou have not 
given its fulness, its being, its — I know not what — 
soul, perhaps, which floats vaporously about the taber- 
nacle of flesh ; in short, that flower of life which Raphael 
and Titian culled. Start from the point 3’ou have now 
attained, and perhaps 3^011 may 3"et paint a worth3^ pic- 
ture : you grew weary too soon. Mediocrity will extol 
3’our work ; but the true artist smiles. O Mabuse ! 
O m3^ master!” added this singular person, “you 
were a thief; you have robbed us of 3'our life, 3’our 
knowledge, your art ! But at least,” he resumed after 
a pause, “this picture is better than the paintings of 
that rascall3" Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish 
flesh daubed with vermilion, his cascades of red hair, 
and his hurly-burly of color. At any rate, you have got 
the elements of color, drawing, and sentiment, — the 
three essential parts of art.” 

“ But the saint is sublime, good sir ! ” cried the 3"oung 
man in a loud voice, waking from a deep revery. 
“ These figures, the saint and the boatman, have a sub- 
tile meaning which the Italian painters cannot give. I 
do not know one of them who could have invented fbgi- 
hesitation of the boatman.” 


337 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

** Does the young fellow belong to you?” asked Por- 
bus of the old man. 

‘‘Alas, maitre, forgive my boldness,” said the neo- 
phyte, blushing. “ I am all unknown ; only a dauber 
by instinct. I have just come to Paris, that fountain 
of art and science.” 

“ Let us see what you can do,” said Porbus, giving 
him a red crayon and a piece of paper. 

The unknown copied the saint with an easy turn of 
his hand. 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” exclaimed the old man, “ what is your 
name?” 

The youth signed the drawing : Nicolas Poussin. 

“ Not bad for a beginner,” said the strange being 
who had discoursed so wildly. “ I see that it is worth 
while to talk art before you. I don’t blame you for 
admiring Porbus’s saint. It is a masterpiece for the 
world at large ; only those who are behind the veil of 
the holy of holies can perceive its errors. But you are 
worthy of a lesson, and capable of understanding it. I 
will show you how little is needed to turn that picture 
into a true masterpiece. Give all your eyes and all 
your attention ; such a chance of instruction may never 
fall in your way again. Your palette, Porbus.” 

Porbus fetched his palette and brushes. The little 
old man turned up his cuffs with convulsive haste, 
slipped his thumb through the palette charged with 
prismatic colors, and snatched, rather than took, the 
handful of brushes which Porbus held out to him. As 
he did so his beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver 
with the eagerness of an incontinent fancy ; and while 

he filled his brush he muttered between his teeth r — 

22 


338 The Hidden Masterpiece, 

“ Colors fit to fling out of the window with the man 
who ground them, — crude, false, revolting! who can 
paint with them?’* 

Then he dipped the point of his brush with feverish 
haste into the various tints, running through the whole 
scale with more rapidity than the organist of a cathe- 
dral runs up the gamut of the O Filii at Easter. 

Porbus and Poussin stood motionless on either side 
of the easel, plunged in passionate contemplation. 

“ See, young man,” said the old man without turning 
round, “ see how with three or four touches and a faint 
bluish glaze you can make the air circulate round the 
head of the poor saint, who was suffocating in that thick 
atmosphere. Look how the drapery now floats, and 3’ou 
see that the breeze lifts it ; just now it looked like heavy 
linen held out b3" pins. Observe that the satiny lustre 
I am putting on the bosom gives it the plump supple- 
ness of the flesh of a 3’oung girl. See how this tone of 
mingled reddish-brown and ochre warms up the cold 
gra3’ness of that large shadow where the blood seemed 
to stagnate rather than flow. Young man, young man ! 
what I am showing you now no other master in the 
world can teach you. Mabuse alone knew the secret 
of giving life to form. Mabuse had but one pupil, 
and I am he. I never took a pupil, and I am an old 
man now. You are intelligent enough to guess at 
what should follow from the little that I shall show 
you to-day.” 

While he was speaking, the extraordinary old man 
was giving touches here and there to all parts of the 
picture. Here two strokes of the brush, there one, 
but each so telling that together they brought out a 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 339 

new painting, — a painting steeped, as it were, in light 
He worked with such passionate ardor that the sweat 
rolled in great drops from his bald brow; and his 
motions seemed to be jerked out of him with such 
rapidity and impatience that the young Poussin fan- 
cied a demon, incased within the body of this singular 
being, was working his hands fantastically like those 
of a puppet without, or even against, the will of their 
owner. The unnatural brightness of his eyes, the con- 
vulsive movements which seemed the result of some 
mental resistance, gave to this fancy of the youth a 
semblance of truth which reacted upon his lively imagi- 
nation. The old man worked on, muttering half to 
himself, half to his neophyte : — 

“Paf ! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young 
man. Ah ! my little pats, you are right ; warm up that 
icy tone. Come, come ! — pon, pon, pon, — ” he con- 
tinued, touching up the spots where he had complained 
of a lack of life, hiding under layers of color the con- 
flicting methods, and regaining the unity of tone essen- 
tial to an ardent Egyptian. 

“ Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches 
of the brush that count for anything. Porbus put on a 
hundred ; I have only put on one or two. Nobody will 
thank us for what is underneath, remember that ! ” 

At last the demon paused ; the old man turned to 
Porbus and Poussin, who stood mute with admiration, 
and said to them, — 

“ It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl ; still, 
one can put one’s name to such a work. Yes, I will 
sign it,” he added, rising to fetch a min’or in which to 
look at what he had done. “ Now let us go and break- 


340 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 

fast. Come, both of j'^ou, to my house. I have some 
smoked ham and good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of 
the degenerate times we will talk painting; we are 
strong ourselves. Here is a little man,” he con- 
tinued, striking Nicolas Poussin on the shoulder, who 
has the faculty.” 

Observing the shabby cap of the youth, he pulled from 
his belt a leathern purse from which he took two gold 
pieces and offered them to him, saying, — 

“ I buy your drawing.” 

“ Take them,” said Porbus to Poussin, seeing that the 
latter trembled and blushed with shame, for the young 
scholar had the pride of poverty ; “ take them, he has 
the ransom of two kings in his pouch.” 

The three left the atelier and proceeded, talking all 
the way of art, to a handsome wooden house standing 
near the Pont Saint-Michel, whose window-casings 
and arabesque decoration amazed Poussin. The em- 
bryo painter soon found himself in one of the rooms 
on the ground floor seated, beside a good Are, at a 
table covered with appetizing dishes, and, by unex- 
pected good fortune, in company with two great artists 
who treated him with kindly attention. 

“Young man,” said Porbus, observing that he was 
speechless, with his eyes flxed on a picture, “do not 
look at that too long, or you will fall into despair.” 

It was the Adam of Mabuse, painted by that way- 
ward genius to enable him to get out of the prison 
where his creditors had kept him so long. The figure 
presented such fulness and force of reality that Nico- 
las Poussin began to comprehend the meaning of the 
bewildering talk of the old man. The latter looked 


The Midden Masterpiece* 341 

at the picture with a satisfied but not enthusiastic 
manner, which seemed to saj, “I have done better 
myself.” 

“ There is life in the form,” he remarked. “ My poor 
master surpassed himself there ; but observe the want of 
truth in the background. The man is living, certainly ; 
he rises and is coming towards us ; but the atmosphere, 
the sky, the air that we breathe, see, feel, — where are 
they ? Besides, that is only a man ; and the being who 
came first from the hand of God must needs have had 
something . divine about him which is lacking here. 
Mabuse said so himself with vexation in his sober 
moments.” 

Poussin looked alternately at the old man and at 
Porbus with uneas}" curiosity. He turned to the latter 
as if to ask the name of their host, but the painter laid 
a finger on his lips with an air of mystery, and the 
young man, keenly interested, kept silence, hoping that 
sooner or later some word of the conversation might 
enable him to guess the name of the old man, whose 
wealth and genius were suflSciently attested by the re- 
spect which Porbus showed him, and by the marvels of 
art heaped together in the picturesque apartment. 

Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of 
the wall a magnificent portrait of a woman, exclaimed 
aloud, “What a beautiful Giorgione!” 

“No,” remarked the old man, “that is only one of 
my early daubs.” 

“Zounds!” cried Poussin naively; “are you the 
king of painters?” 

The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such 
homage. “Maitre Frenhofer,” said Porbus, “could 


342 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

you order up a little of your good Rhine wine for 
me?*’ 

“Two casks,” answered the host; “one to pay for 
the pleasure of looking at your pretty sinner this morn- 
ing, and the other as a mark of friendship.” 

“Ah! if I were not so feeble,” resumed Porbus, 
“ and if 3 "OU would consent to let me see your Beautiful 
Nut-girl, I too could paint some lofty picture, grand 
and yet profound, where the forms should have the 
living life.” 

“Show my work 1 ” exclaimed the old man, with deep 
emotion. “No, no I I have still to bring it to per- 
fection. Yesterday, towards evening, I thought it was 
finished. Her eyes were liquid, her flesh trembled, her 
tresses waved — she breathed ! And yet, though I 
have grasped the secret of rendering on a flat canvas 
the relief and roundness of nature, this morning at 
dawn I saw many errors. Ah! to attain that glori- 
ous result, I have studied to their depths the masters 
of color. I have analyzed and lifted, la^^er by layer, 
the colors of Titian, king of light. Like him, great 
sovereign of art, I have sketched my figure in light 
clear tones of supple yet solid color; for shadow is 
but an accident, — remember that, 3 'oung man. Then I 
worked backward, as it were ; and by means of half- 
tints, and glazings whose transparency I kept dimin- 
ishing little by little, I was able to cast strong shadows 
deepening almost to blackness. The shadows of ordi- 
nary painters are not of the same texture as their tones 
of light. They are wood, brass, iron, anything you 
please except flesh in shadow. We feel that if the 
figures changed position the shady places could not be 


343 


The Hidden Mantelpiece, 

wiped off, and would remain dark spots which never 
could be made luminous. I have avoided that blunder, 
though many of our most illustrious painters have fallen 
into it. In my work you will see whiteness beneath 
the opacity of the broadest shadow. Unlike the crowd 
of ignoramuses, who fancy they draw correctly because 
they can paint one good vanishing line, I have not 
dryly outlined my figures, nor brought out supersti- 
tiously minute anatomical details ; for, let me tell you, 
the human body does not end off with a line. In that 
respect sculptors get nearer to the truth of nature than 
we do. Nature is all curves, each wrapping or overlap- 
ping another. To speak rigorousl}", there is no such 
thing as drawing. Do not laugh, young man; no 
matter how strange that saying seems to you, you will 
understand the reasons for it one of these days. A line 
is a means by which man explains to himself the effect 
of light upon a given object ; but there is no such thing 
as a line in nature, where all things are rounded and 
full. It is only in modelling that we really draw, — in 
other words, that we detach things from their surround- 
ings and put them in their due relief. The proper dis- 
tribution of light can alone reveal the whole body. For 
this reason I do not sharply define lineaments ; I diffuse 
about their outline a haze of warm, light half- tints, so 
that I defy any one to place a finger on the exact spot 
where the parts join the groundwork of the picture. If 
seen near by this sort of work has a woolly effect, and 
is wanting in nicety and precision ; but go a few steps 
off and the parts fall into place ; they take their proper 
form and detach themselves, — the body turns, the limbs 
stand out, we feel the air circulating around them. 


344 The Hidden Masterpiece* 

‘‘Nevertheless,** he continued, sadly, “I am not satis- 
fied ; there are moments when I have my doubts. Per- 
haps it would be better not to sketch a single line. I ask 
myself if I ought not to grasp the figure first by its high- 
est lights, and then work down to the darker portions. 
Is not that the method of the sun, divine painter of the 
universe? O Nature, Nature! who has ever caught thee 
in thy flights ? Alas ! the heights of knowledge, like the 
depths of ignorance, lead to unbelief. I doubt my work.** 

The old man paused, then resumed. “For ten 
years I have worked, young man ; but what are ten 
short years in the long struggle with Nature? We do 
not know the time it cost Pygmalion to make the only 
statue that ever walked — ** 

He fell into a revery and remained, with fixed e3’es, 
oblivious of all about him, playing mechanicallj^ with his 
knife. 

“ See, he is talking to his own soul,*’ said Porbus 
in a low voice. 

The words acted like a spell on Nicolas Poussin, fill- 
ing him with the inexplicable curiosity of a true artist. 
The strange old man, with his white eyes fixed in stupor, 
became to the wondering youth something more than a 
man ; he seemed a fantastic spirit inhabiting an unknown 
sphere, and waking by its touch confused ideas within 
the soul. We can no more define the moral phenomena 
of this species of fascination than we can render in 
words the emotions excited in the heart of an exile by a 
song which recalls his fatherland. The contempt which 
the old man affected to pour upon the noblest efforts 
of art, his wealth, his manners, the respectful deference 
shown to him by Porbus, his work guarded so secretly^ 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 345 

— a work of patient toil, a work no doubt of genius, 
judging by the head of the Virgin which Poussin had 
so naively admired, and which, beautiful beside even 
the Adam of Mabuse, betrayed the imperial touch of a 
great artist, — in short, everything about the strange 
old man seemed beyond the limits of human nature. 
The rich imagination of the youth fastened upon the 
one perceptible and clear clew to the mystery of this su- 
pernatural being, — the presence of the artistic nature, 
that wild impassioned nature to which such mighty 
powers have been confided, which too often abuses 
those powers, and drags cold reason and common souls, 
and even lovers of art, over stony and arid places, 
where for such there is neither pleasure nor instruction ; 
while to the artistic soul itself, — that white- winged angel 
of sportive fancy, — epics, works of art, and visions rise 
along the way. It is a nature, an essence, mocking 
yet kind, fruitful though destitute. Thus, for the 
enthusiastic Poussin, the old man became by sudden 
transfiguration Art itself, — art with all its secrets, its 
transports, and its dreams. 

“Yes, my dear Porbus,” said Frenhofer, speaking 
half in revery, “ I have never yet beheld a perfect 
woman ; a body whose outlines were faultless and whose 
flesh- tints — Ah ! where lives she ? ” he cried, interrupt- 
ing his own words ; “ where lives the lost Venus of he 
ancients, so long sought for, whose scattered beauty we 
snatch by glimpses ? Oh ! to see for a moment, a single 
moment, the divine completed nature, — the ideal, — I 
would give my all of fortune. Yes ; I would search thee 
out, celestial Beauty ! i bhy farthest sphere. Like Orphe- 
us, I would go down to hell to win back the life of art — ” 


346 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

“Let us go,” said Porbus to Poussin; “he neither 
sees nor hears us any longer.” 

“Let us go to his atelier^'* said the wonder-struck 
young man. 

“ Oh ! the old dragon has guarded the entrance. His 
treasure is out of our reach. I have not waited for your 
wish or urging to attempt an assault on the mystery.” 

“ Mystery ! then there is a mystery? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Porbus. “Frenhofer was the only 
pupil Mabuse was willing to teach. He became the friend, 
saviour, father of that unhappy man, and he sacrificed 
the greater part of his wealth to satisfy the mad passions 
of his master. In return, Mabuse bequeathed to him 
the secret of relief, the power of giving life to form, — 
that flower of nature, our perpetual despair, which Ma- 
buse had seized so well that once, having sold and drunk 
the value of a flowered damask which he should have 
worn at the entrance of Charles V. , he made his appear- 
ance in a paper garment painted to resemble damask. 
The splendor of the stuff attracted the attention of the 
emperor, who, wishing to compliment the old drunkard, 
laid a hand upon his shoulder and discovered the decep- 
tion. Frenhofer is a man carried away by the passion of 
his art ; he sees above and beyond what other painters 
see. He has meditated deeply on color and the abso- 
lute truth of lines ; but by dint of much research, much 
thought, much study, he has come to doubt the object 
for which he is searching. In his hours of despair he 
fancies that drawing does not exist, and that lines can 
render nothing but geometric figures. That, of course, 
is not true ; because with a black line which has no color 
we can represent the human form. This proves that our 


347 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

art is made up, like nature, of an infinite number of ele- 
ments. Drawing gives the skeleton, and color gives the 
life ; but life without the skeleton is a far more incom- 
plete thing than the skeleton without the life. But there 
is a higher truth still, — namely, that practice and obser- 
vation are the essentials of a painter ; and that if reason 
and poesy persist in wrangling with the tools, the brushes, 
we shall be brought to doubt, like Frenhofer, who is as 
much excited in brain as he is exalted in art. A sublime 
painter, indeed ; but he had the misfortune to be born 
rich, and that enables him to stray into theory and con- 
jecture. Do not imitate him. Work ! work ! painters 
should theorize with their brushes in their hands.** 

“ We will contrive to get in,** cried Poussin, not listen- 
ing to Porbus, and thinking only of the hidden master- 
piece. 

Porbus smiled at the youth*s enthusiasm, and bade 
him farewell with a kindly invitation to come and visit 
him. 

Nicolas Poussin returned slowly towards the Rue de la 
Harpe and passed, without observing that he did so, the 
modest hostelry where he was lodging. Returning pres- 
ently upon his steps, he ran up the miserable stairway 
with anxious rapidity until he reached an upper chamber 
nestling between the joists of a roof en Colombo ge^ — the 
plain, slight covering of the houses of old Paris. Near 
the single and gloomy window of the room sat a young 
girl, who rose quickly as the door opened, with a gesture 
of love ; she had recognized the 3 oung man’s touch upon 
the latch. 

“ What is the matter?** she asked. 


348 The Hidden Masterpiece- 

“ It is — it is,” he cried, choking with joy, “ that I feel 
myself a painter I I have doubted it till now ; but to- 
day I believe in myself. I can be a great man. Ah, 
Gillette, we shall be rich, happy! There is gold in 
these brushes ! ” 

Suddenly he became silent. His grave and earnest 
face lost its expression of joy ; he was comparing the im- 
mensity of his hopes with the mediocrity of his means. 
The walls of the garret were covered with bits of paper 
on which were crayon sketches ; he possessed only four 
clean canvases. Colors were at that time costly, and 
the poor gentleman gazed at a palette that was wellnigh 
bare. In the midst of this poverty he felt within himself 
an indescribable wealth of heart and the superabundant 
force of consuming genius. Brought to Paris by a gen- 
tleman of his acquaintance, and perhaps by the monition 
of his own talent, he had suddenly found a mistress, — one 
of those generous and noble souls who are ready to suf- 
fer by the side of a great man ; espousing his poverty, 
studying to comprehend his caprices, strong to bear de- 
privation and bestow love, as others are daring in the 
display of luxury and in parading the insensibility of 
their hearts. The smile which flickered on her lips 
brightened as with gold the darkness of the garret and 
rivalled the effulgence of the skies ; for the sun did not 
always shine in the heavens, but she was always here, 
— calm and collected in her passion, living in his happi- 
ness, his griefs ; sustaining the genius which overflowed 
in love ere it found in art its destined expression. 

“ Listen, Gillette ; come ! ” 

The obedient, happy girl sprang lightly on the paint- 
er’s knee. She was all grace and beauty, pretty as the 


349 


The Hidden MaBterpiece, 

sprhig-time, decked with the wealth of feminine charm^ 
and lighting all with the fire of a noble soul. 

“ O God ! ’' he exclaimed, “ I can never tell her I ” 

“ A secret ! ” she cried ; “ then I must know it*' 
Poussin was lost in thought. 

“Tell me.** 

“ Gillette, poor, beloved heart! ” 

“Ah ! do you want something of me?” 

“ Yes.** 

“ If you want me to pose as I did the other day,** she 
said, with a little pouting air, “ I will not do it. Your 
eyes say nothing to me, then. You look at me, but you 
do not think of me.** 

“Would you like me to copy another woman?** 

“ Perhaps, ** she answered, “ if she were very ugly.** 
“Well,** continued Poussin, in a grave tone, “if 
to make me a great painter it were necessary to pose to 
some one else — ** 

“ You are testing me,** she interrupted ; “you know 
well that I would not do it.** 

Poussin bent his head upon his breast like a man suc- 
cumbing to joy or grief too great for his spirit to bear. 

“ Listen,** she said, pulling him by the sleeve of his 
worn doublet, “ I told j^ou, Nick, that I would give my 
life for you ; but I never said — never ! — that I, a liv- 
ing woman, would renounce my love.** 

“ Renounce it?** cried Poussin. 

“ If I showed myself thus to another you would love 
me no longer ; and I myself, I should feel unworthy of 
your love. To obey your caprices, ah, that is simple 
and natural I in spite of mj^self, I am proud and happy 
in doing thy dear will ; but to another, fy 1 ** 


350 The Hidden Masterpiece, 

“ Forgive me, my own Gillette,” said the painter, 
throwing himself at her feet. “ I would rather be loved 
than famous. To me thou art more precious than for- 
tune and honors. Yes, away with these brushes ! burn 
those sketches ! I have been mistaken. My vocation 
is to love thee, — thee alone ! I am not a painter, I am 
th}' lover. Perish art and all its secrets ! ” 

She looked at him admiringly, happy and captivated 
by his passion. She reigned ; she felt instinctivel}’ that 
the arts were forgotten for her sake, and flung at her 
feet like grains of incense. 

“ Yet he is only an old man,” resumed Poussin. “ In 
5 "ou he would see onl}" a woman. You are the perfect 
woman whom he seeks.” 

“ Love should grant all things ! ” she exclaimed, 
ready to sacrifice love’s scruples to reward the lover 
who thus seemed to sacrifice his art to her. “ And 
yet,” she added, “ it would be my ruin. Ah, to 
suffer for thy good ! Yes, it is glorious ! But thou 
wilt forget me. How came this cruel thought into 
thy mind?” 

“ It came there, and yet I love thee,” he said, with a 
sort of contrition. “ Am I, then, a wretch? ” 

“ Let us consult Pere Hardouin.” 

“ No, no ! it must be a secret between us.” 

“ Well, I will go ; but thou must not be present,” she 
said. “ Stay at the door, armed with thy dagger. If I 
cr}- out, enter and kill the man.” 

Forgetting all but his art, Poussin clasped her in his 
arms. 

“ He loves me no longer I” thought Gillette, when she 
was once more alone. 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 351 

She regretted her promise. But before long she fell 
a prey to an anguish far more cruel than her regret ; and 
she struggled vainly to drive forth a terrible fear which 
forced its way into her mind. She felt that she loved 
him less as the suspicion rose in her heart that he was 
less worthy than she had thought him. 


352 


The Midden Masterpiece* 


JL 

Three months after the first meeting of Porbus and 
Poussin, the former went to see Maitre Frenhofer. He 
found the old man a prey to one of those deep, self- 
developed discouragements, whose cause, if we are to 
believe the mathematicians of health, lies in a bad di- 
gestion, in the wind, in the weather, in some swelling 
of the intestines, or else, according to casuists, in the 
imperfections of our moral nature ; the fact being that 
the good man was simply worn out by the effort to com- 
plete his m^'sterious picture. He was seated languidly 
in a large oaken chair of vast dimensions covered with 
black leather; and without changing his melancholy 
attitude he cast on Porbus the distant glance of a man 
sunk in absolute dejection. 

“ Well, maitre,” said Porbus, “was the ultra-marine, 
for which you journeyed to Brussels, worthless? Are 
3"ou unable to grind our new white? Is the oil bad, or 
the brushes restive ? ” 

“Alas!” cried the old man, “I thought for one 
moment that my work was accomplished ; but I must 
have deceived mj^self in some of the details. I shall 
have no peace until I clear up my doubts. I am about 
to travel ; I go to Turkey, Asia, Greece, in search of 
models. I must compare my picture with various types 
of Nature. It may be that I have up there” he added, 
ktting a smile of satisfaction flicker on his lip, ‘‘Nature 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 353 

herself. At times I am half afraid that a breath may 
wake this woman, and that she will disappear from 
sight.” 

He rose suddenly, as if to depart at once. “ Wait,” 
exclaimed Porbus. “ I have come in time to spare you 
the costs and fatigues of such a journey.” 

“How so?” asked Frenhofer, surprised. 

“ Young Poussin is beloved by a woman whose in- 
comparable beauty is without imperfection. But, my 
dear master, if he consents to lend her to you, at least 
you must let us see your picture.” 

The old man remained standing, motionless, in a state 
bordering on stupefaction. “What!” he at last ex- 
claimed, mournfully. “ Show my creature, my spouse ? 
— tear off the veil with which I have chastely hidden my 
joy ? It would be prostitution I For ten years I have 
lived with this woman ; she is mine, mine alone ! she 
loves me ! Has she not smiled upon me as, touch by 
touch, I painted her? She has a soul, — the soul with 
which I endowed her. She would blush if other eyes 
than mine beheld her. Let her be seen? — where is the 
husband, the lover, so debased as to lend his wife to 
dishonor ? When you paint a picture for the court you 
do not put your whole soul into it ; j^ou sell to courtiers 
your tricked-out lay-figures. My painting is not a pic- 
ture ; it is a sentiment, a passion ! Born in my atelier^ 
she must remain a virgin there. She shall not leave it 
unclothed. Poesy and women give themselves bare, 
like truth, to lovers only. Have we the model of Ra- 
phael, the Angelica of Ariosto, the Beatrice of Dante? 
No, we see but their semblance. Well, the work which 
1 keep hidden behind bolts and bars is an exception to 
23 


354 The Hidden Masterpiece, 

all other art. It is not a canvas ; it is a woman, — a 
woman with whom I weep and laugh and think and 
talk. Would 5'ou have me resign the joy of ten years, 
as I might throw away a worn-out doublet? Shall I, 
in a moment, cease to be father, lover, creator ? — this 
woman is not a creature ; she is my creation. Bring 
your young man ; I will give him my treasures, — 
paintings of Correggio, Michel- Angelo, Titian ; I wili 
kiss the print of his feet in the dust, — but make him my 
rival ? Shame upon me ! Ha ! I am more a lover than 
I am a painter. I shall have the strength to burn my 
Nut-girl ere I render my last sigh ; but suffer her to 
endure the glance of a man, a young man, a painter? 
— No, no! I would kill on the morrow the man who 
polluted her with a look I I would kill you, — you, my 
friend, — if 3-011 did not worship her on 3’our knees ; and 
think 3’ou I would submit m}^ idol to the cold eyes and 
stupid criticisms of fools ? Ah, love is a m3"stery ! 
its life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a 
man says, even to his friend. Here is she whom I 
love.” 

The old man seemed to renew his 3^outh ; his eyes 
had the brilliancy and fire of life, his pale cheeks 
blushed a vivid red, his hands trembled. Porbus, 
amazed bj^ the passionate violence with which he ut- 
tered these words, knew not how to answer a feeling 
so novel and 3^et so profound. Was the old man 
under the thraldom of an artist’s fancy ? Or did these 
ideas fiow from the unspeakable fanaticism produced at 
times in every mind b3" the long gestation of a noble 
work? Was it possible to bargain with this strange 
and whimsical being? 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 355 

Filled with such thoughts, Porbus said to the old 
man, “Is it not woman for woman? Poussin lends 
his mistress to your eyes.** 

“What sort of mistress is that?’* cried Frenhofer. 
“ She will betray him sooner or later. Mine wiU be to 
me forever faithful.” 

“Well,” returned Porbus, “ then let us say no more. 
But before you find, even in Asia, a woman as beautiful, 
as perfect, as the one I speak of, you may be dead, and 
your picture forever unfinished.” 

“Oh, it is finished!” said Frenhofer. “Whoever 
sees it will find a woman lying on a velvet bed, beneath 
curtains ; perfumes are exhaling from a golden tripod 
by her side : he will be tempted to take the tassels of 
the cord that holds back the curtain ; he will think he 
sees the bosom of Catherine Lescaut, — a model called 
the Beautiful Nut-girl ; he will see it rise and fall with 
the movement of her breathing. Yet — I wish I could 
be sure — ** 

“Go to Asia, then,” said Porbus hastily, fancying he 
saw some hesitation in the old man’s eye. 

Porbus made a few steps towards the door of the 
room. At this moment Gillette and Nicolas Poussin 
reached the entrance of the house. As the young girl 
was about to enter, she dropped the arm of her lover 
and shrank back as if overcome by a presentiment. 
“What am I doing here?” she said to Poussin, in a 
deep voice, looking at him fixedly. 

“Gillette, I leave you mistress of your actions; I 
will obey your will. You are my conscience, my 
glory. Come home ; I shall be happy, perhaps, if you, 
yourself-—” 


35(5 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

Have I a self when you speak thus to me ? Oh, no ! 
I am but a child. Come,” she continued, seeming to 
make a violent effort. “If our love perishes, if I put 
into my heart a long regret, thy fame shall be the guer- 
don of my obedience to thy will. Let us enter. I may 
yet live again, — a memory on thy palette.” 

Opening the door of the house the two lovers met Por- 
bus coming out. Astonished at the beauty of the young 
girl, whose eyes were still wet with tears, he caught her 
all trembling by the hand and led her to the old master. 

“ There ! ” he cried ; “ is she not worth all the master- 
pieces in the world ? ” 

Frenhofer quivered. Gillette stood before him in the 
ingenuous, simple attitude of a young Georgian, innocent 
and timid, captured by brigands and offered to a slave- 
merchant. A modest blush suffused her cheeks, her eyes 
were lowered, her hands hung at her sides, strength 
seemed to abandon her, and her tears protested against 
the violence done to her purity. Poussin cursed him- 
self, and repented of his folly in bringing this treasure 
from their peaceful garret. Once more he became a 
lover rather than an artist; scruples convulsed his 
heart as he saw the eye of the old painter regain its 
youth and, with the artist’s habit, disrobe as it were 
the beauteous form of the young girl. He was seized 
with the jealous frenzy of a true lover. 

“ Gillette ! ” he cried ; “ let us go.” 

At this cry, with its accent of love, his mistress raised 
her eyes joyfully and looked at him ; then she ran into 
his arms. 

“Ah! you love me still?” she whispered, bursting 
into tears. 


The Hidden Masterpiece. 357 

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she 
had none to hide her joy. 

“ Let me have her for one moment,” exclaimed the old 
master, “ and you shall compare her with my Catherine. 
Yes, yes ; I consent ! ” 

There was Ipve in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of 
Poussin, mingled with jealous coquetry on behalf of his 
semblance of a woman ; he seemed to revel in the tri^ 
umph which the beauty of his virgin was about to win 
over the beauty of the living woman. 

“ Do not let him retract,” cried Porbus, striking 
Poussin on the shoulder. “The fruits of love wither 
in a day ; those of art are immortal.” 

“ Can it be,” said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin 
and at Porbus, “ that I am nothing more than a woman 
to him ? ” 

She raised her head proudly ; and as she glanced at 
Frenhofer with flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing 
once more at the picture he had formerly taken for a 
Giorgione. 

“ Ah !” she cried, “ let us go in ; he never looked at 
me like that ! ” 

“ Old man ! ” said Poussin, roused from his medita- 
tion by Gillette’s voice, “ see this sword. I will plunge 
it into your heart at the first cry of that young girl. I 
will set fire to your house, and no one shall escape from 
it. Do you understand me?” 

His look was gloomy and the tones of his voice were 
terrible. His attitude, and above all the gesture with 
which he laid his hand upon the weapon, comforted the 
poor girl, who half forgave him for thus sacrificing her 
his art and to his hopes of a glorious future. 


358 The Hidden Masterpiece. 

Porbus and Poussin remained outside the closed door 
of the atelier^ looking at one another in silence. At first 
the painter of the Egyptian Mary uttered a few exclama- 
tions : “ Ah, she unclothes herself ! ” — “ He tells her to 
stand in the light ! ” — “He compares them ! ” but he 
grew silent as he watched the mournful face of the young 
man ; for though old painters have none of such petty 
scruples in presence of their art, yet they admire them 
in others, when they are fresh and pleasing. The young 
man held his hand on his sword, and his ear seemed 
glued to the panel of the door. Both men, standing 
darkly in the shadow, looked like conspirators waiting 
the hour to strike a tyrant. 

“ Come in ! come in ! ” cried the old man, beaming 
with happiness. My work is perfect ; I can show it 
now with pride. Never shall painter, brushes, colors, 
canvas, light, produce the rival of Catherine Lescaut, 
the Beautiful Nut-girl.” 

Porbus and Poussin, seized with wild curiosity , rushed 
into the middle of a vast atelier filled with dust, where 
everything lay in disorder, and where they saw a few 
paintings hanging here and there upon the walls. They 
stopped before the figure of a woman, life-sized and half 
nude, which filled them with eager admiration. 

“ Do not look at that,” said Frenhofer, “ it is only a 
daub which I made to studj^ a pose ; it is worth nothing. 
Those a-re my eiTors,” he added, waving his hand towards 
the enchanting compositions on the walls around them. 

At these words Porbus and Poussin, amazed at the dis- 
dain which the master showed for such marvels of art, 
looked about them for the secret treasure, but could see 
it nowhere. 


359 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

“ There it is ! ” said the old man, whose hair fell 
in disorder about his face, which was scarlet with super- 
natural excitement. His eyes sparkled, and his breast 
heaved like that of a young man beside himself with 
love. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, “you did not expect such perfection? 
You stand before a woman, and you are looking fora 
picture ! There are such depths on that canvas, the air 
within it is so true, that 3^011 are unable to distinguish it 
from the air you breathe. Where is art ? Departed, van- 
ished ! Here is the form itself of a young girl. Have I 
not caught the color, the very life of the line which seems 
to terminate the body ? The same phenomenon which we 
notice around fishes in the water is also about objects 
which float in air. See how these outlines spring forth 
from the background. Do you not feel that 3’ou could 
pass 3"our hand behind those shoulders ? For seven 3^ears 
have I studied these effects of light coupled with form. 
That hair, — is it not bathed in light? Why, she breathes ! 
That bosom, — see ! Ah ! who would not worship it on 
bended knee ? The flesh palpitates ! Wait, she is about 
to rise ; wait ! ” 

“Can 3’ou see anything?’* whispered Poussin to 
Porbus. 

‘ ‘ N othing. Can you ? ” 

“ No.” 

The two painters drew back, leaving the old man 
absorbed in ecstasy, and tried to see if the light, falling 
plumb upon the canvas at which he pointed, had neu- 
tralized all effects. They examined the picture, moving 
from right to left, standing directly before it, bending, 
swajdng, rising b3" turns. 


360 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

“Yes, yes; it is really a canvas,” cried Frenhofer, 
mistaking the purpose of their examination. “ See, 
here is the frame, the easel ; these are my colors, my 
brushes.” And he caught up a brush which he held out 
to them with a naive motion. 

“ The old rogue is making game of us,” said Poussin, 
coming close to the pretended picture. “I can see 
nothing here but a mass of confused color, crossed by 
a multitude of eccentric lines, making a sort of painted 
wall.” 

“ We are mistaken. See ! ” returned Porbus. 

Coming nearer, they perceived in a corner of the 
canvas the point of a naked foot, which came forth from 
the chaos of colors, tones, shadows hazy and undefined, 
mist}" and without form, — an enchanting foot, a living 
foot. They stood lost in admiration before this glorious 
fragment breaking forth from the incredible, slow, pro- 
gressive destruction around it. The foot seemed to them 
like the torso of some Grecian Venus, brought to light 
amid the ruins of a burned city. 

“There is a woman beneath it all!” cried Porbus, 
calling Poussin’s attention to the layers of color which 
the old painter had successively laid on, believing that 
he thus brought his work to perfection. The two men 
turned towards him with one accord, beginning to 
comprehend, though vaguely, the ecstasy in which he 
lived. 

“ He means it in good faith,” said Porbus. 

“Yes, my friend,” answered the old man, rousing 
from his abstraction, “ we need faith ; faith in art. We 
must live with our work for years before we can pro* 
duce a creation like that. Some of these shadows have 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 361 

cost me endless toil. See, there on her cheek, below 
the eyes, a faint half-shadow ; if you observed it in 
Nature yon might think it could hardly be rendered. 
Well, believe me, I took unheard-of pains to reproduce 
that effect. My dear Porbus, look attentively at my 
work, and you will comprehend what I have told you 
about the manner of treating form and outline. Look 
at the light on the bosom, and see how by a series of 
touches and higher lights firmly laid on I have managed 
to grasp light itself, and combine it with the dazzling 
whiteness of the clearer tones ; and then see how, by an 
opposite method, — smoothing off the sharp contrasts 
and the texture of the color, — I have been able, by 
caressing the outline of my figure and veiling it with 
cloudy half-tints, to do away with the very idea of draw- 
ing and all other artificial means, and give to the form 
the aspect and roundness of Nature itself. Come nearer, 
and you will see the work more distinctly ; if too far off 
it disappears. See ! there, at that point, it is, I think, 
most remarkable.” And with the end of his brush he 
pointed to a spot of clear light color. 

Porbus struck the old man on the shoulder, turning 
to Poussin as he did so, and said, “ Do you know that 
he is one of our greatest painters ? ” 

“He is a poet even more than he is a painter,** 
answered Poussin gravely. 

“There,” returned Porbus, touching the canvas, “is 
the ultimate end of our art on earth.” 

“And from thence,” added Poussin, “it rises, to 
enter heaven.” 

“ How much happiness is there 1 — upon that canvas,” 
said Porbus. 


362 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 

The absorbed old man gave no heed to their words ; 
he was smiling at his visionary woman. 

“ But sooner or later, he will perceive that there is 
nothing there,” cried Poussin. 

“Nothing there! — upon my canvas?” said Fren- 
hofer, looking first at the two painters, and then at his 
imaginary picture. 

“What have you done?” cried Porbus, addressing 
Poussin. 

The old man seized the arm of the young man 
violently, and said to him, “You see nothing? — clown, 
infidel, scoundrel, dolt I Why did you come here ? My 
good Porbus,' he added, turning to his friend, “is it 
possible that you, too, are jesting with me? Answer; 
I am your friend. Tell me, can it be that I have 
spoiled my picture?” 

Porbus hesitated, and feared to speak ; but the anxi- 
ety painted on the white face of the old man was so 
cruel that he was constrained to point to the canvas 
and utter the word, “ See ! ” 

Frenhofer looked at his picture for the space of a 
moment, and staggered. 

“ Nothing I nothing ! after tolling ten years ! ” 

He sat down and wept. 

“ Am I then a fool, an idiot? Have I neither talent nor 
capacity? Am I no better than a rich man who walks, 
and can only walk ? Have I indeed produced nothing ? ” 

He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he 
raised himself proudly and flung a lightning glance 
upon the two painters. 

“ By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, 
you are envious men who seek to make me think she is 


The Hidden Masterpiece, 363 

spoiled, that you may steal her from me. I — I see 
her ! ” he cried. “ She is wondrouslj'^ beautiful ” 

At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette 
as she stood, forgotten, in a corner. 

“ What troubles thee, my darling? asked the painter, 
becoming once more a lover. 

“ Kill me ! ” she answered. I should be infamous 
if I still loved thee, for T despise thee. I admire thee ; 
but thou hast filled me with horror. I love, and yet 
already I hate thee.” 

While Poussin listened to Gillette, Frenhofer drew 
a green curtain before his Catherine, with the grave 
composure of a jeweller locking his drawers when he 
thinks that thieves are near him. He cast at the two 
painters a look which was profoundly dissimulating, 
full of contempt and suspicion ; then, with convulsive 
haste, he silently pushed them through the door of his 
atelier. When they reached the threshold of his house 
he said to them, “Adieu, my little friends.” 

The tone of this farewell chilled the two painters with 
fear. 

On the morrow Porbus, alarmed, went again to 
visit Frenhofer, and found that he had died during 
the night, after having burned his paintings. 


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